Families in the Roman and Late Antique World 9781472556684, 9781441174680

Citation preview

Abbreviations Books and Journals AE AJA ANRW AntAfr. BF BGU BZ CIL CILA CP CSIR CW DECAR EJA EME ERAE FIRA GorThR HEp IAph2007 IAq IIt ILAfr ILAlg ILER ILN

L’Année épigraphique American Journal of Archaeology Aufstieg und Niedergang der romischen Welt Antiquités Africaines Byzantinische Forschungen Berliner Griechische Urkunden Byzantine Zeitschrift Corpus Inscriptionum Latinarum Corpus de inscripciones latinas de Andalucía Classical Philology Corpus Signorum Imperii Romani Classical World Abascal Palazón, J. M. and Ramallo Asensio, S. F. (1997), La ciudad de Carthago Noua la documentación epigráfica, Murcia European Journal of Archaeology Early Medieval Europe García Iglesias, L. (1972), Epigrafía Romana de Augusta Emerita Riccobono, S. (1941), Fontes Iuris Romani AnteIustiani Greek Orthodox Theological Review Hispania Epigraphica Reynolds, J., Roueché, C. and Bodard, G. (eds) (2007), Inscriptions of Aphrodisias Inscriptiones Aquileiae Inscriptiones Italiae Inscriptions latines d’Afrique (Tripolitaine, Tunisie et Maroc) Inscriptions latines de l’Algérie Vives, J. (1971–1972), Inscripciones latinas de la España romana. Antología de 6800 textos, Barcelona Inscriptions latines de Narbonnaise

A bbreviatio ns

ILS ILTun IRC IRCP IRIlici IRPLE JDAI JECS JIES JMH JRS LICS MCV MEFRA NSc PSI RIU SB SEG

xi

Inscriptiones latinae selectae Inscriptions latines de Tunisie Fabre, G., Mayer, M. and Rodà, I. (1997), Inscriptions romaines de Catalogne, Paris Encarnacão (d’), J. (1984), Inscricões romanas do Conventus Pacensis subsídios para o estudo da romanização, 2 Vols, Coïmbra Corell, J. (1999), Inscripcions romanas d’Ilici, Lucentum, Allon, Dianium i els seus territoris, Valentia Diego Santos, F. (1986), Inscripciones romanas de la provincia de León, Leon Jahrbuch des Deutschen Archäologischen Instituts Journal of Early Christian Studies Journal of Indo-European Studies Journal of Medieval History Journal of Roman Studies Knapp, R. C. (1992), Latin Inscriptions from Central Spain, Los Angeles Mélanges de la Casa de Velázquez Mélanges d’Archéologie et d’Histoire de l’Ecole Française de Rome Notizi degli Scavi Papiri Greci e Latini, Pubblicazioni della Società italiana per la ricerca dei papyri greci e latini in Egitto Die römischen Inschriften Ungarns Preisigke, S. (1915–), Sammelbuch griechischen Urkunden aus Ägypten Chaniotis, A., Corsten, T., Stroud, R. S. and Tybout, R. A, Supplementum Epigraphicum Graecum, Leiden Brill

Ancient Sources Anast. Sin. The Tales of Anastasios the Sinaïte Carm. epigr. Carmina epigraphica Cass. Dio Cassius Dio Cic., Off. Cicero, De officiis Cic., Q. Fr. Cicero, Epistulae ad Quintum fratrem Cyr. Scyth. V. Ioh. Hes. Vita of John the Hesychast Dig. Digesta Ep. Epistulae (Sidonius Appolinaris)

xii A bbreviatio ns Etym. Etymologiae (Isidore) Euch. Paulinus, Eucharisticos Greg. Glor. Mart. Gregory of Tours, Gloria Martyrorum Greg. HF Gregory of Tour, Historia Francorum Just. Inst. Justinian I, The Institutes Just. Nov. Justinian I, Novels Laz. Gal. Vita of Lazaros of Mount Galesion Leo Diac Leo the Deacon, The History Lys. Lysias Eclo. Leo III, The Ecolga Mart. Martial Pan. Lat. Panegyrici Latini Paul of Monem., ST The spiritually beneficial tales of Paul, Bishop of Monemvasia Petron., Sat. Petronius, Satyrica Plaut., Poen. Plautus, Poenulus Suet., Aug. Suetonius, Divus Augustus Suet., Cal. Suetonius, Caligula Ruricius, Ep. Ruricius of Limoges, Epistulae Tac., Ann. Tacitus, Annales Ter., An. Terence, Andria Ulp. Ulpianus V. Davidis Sym. et Georg Vitae of David, Symeon and George of Lesbos V. Elias Helio Vita of Elias of Helioupolis V. Luk. Steir. Vita of Luke the Younger V. Nikeph. Vita of Nikephoros V. Philaretos Vita of Philaretos the Merciful V. Theod. Thess Vita of Theodora of Thessalonike

Preface The volumes of The Family in Antiquity series bring together scholars investigating the ancient family across the spectrum of classical ancient history – from ancient Greece, to the Hellenistic Mediterranean, to the Roman Empire through to early Christian Europe. All the writers have an interest in what could be described as the nature of the oikos in Greece and the familia of the Roman Empire and early Medieval Europe. The terms oikos and familia as used in antiquity are difficult to define and any translation into a European language is quickly found to be wanting and inadequate. Moreover, the cultural production and reproduction of these linguistic terms occurred in very different societies across the wide chronological span of antiquity – over 1,600 years (from c.800 BC through to c.AD 800 ). This diversity of usage and cultural context was one of the attractions of these terms for an investigation that was first considered in 2008 at a meeting to discuss collaboration of research between the present editors of the volumes. Our intention was to extend the discussion of the family in antiquity both in terms of chronological range, but also in terms of the interaction of academics working on different periods of antiquity. After all, we can all observe in our university libraries the range of publications on the Roman Family and then find an absence of a similar scale of writing on the family in Archaic, Classical or Hellenistic Greece; or, for that matter, books on the family in Late Antiquity. To address this issue, we decided to hold a conference entitled From Oikos to the Familia: Framing the Discipline for the 21st Century with the proviso that we would include all who wished to deliver a paper on this subject. We met in Gothenburg over three days in November 2009 with over 70 speakers from across the globe, arranged, for the most part, in three parallel sessions. Subsequently, as organizers, we were faced with the difficult choice of which papers to select for inclusion in the volumes. There were many good papers that simply could not be fitted in and here we wish to acknowledge the importance of these unpublished papers that were delivered at the conference. All the papers given in Gothenburg have shaped how authors in these volumes have thought about their shared subject – the ancient family. All the abstracts from the conference can be found at: http://www.iaa.bham.ac.uk/news/conferences/ oikosfamilia/index.shtml In addition, we wish to express our profound gratitude to both Mark Golden and Natalie Kampen in providing a lead in opening the conference and setting an agenda that was explicitly self-critical and questioning of received wisdom.

xiv P reface Both have kindly agreed to comment on the papers published in these volumes in final chapters of each book and to share with us their views of the future of the subject. The volumes of The Family in Antiquity do not seek to definitively define oikos or familia: instead they contain different perspectives to those found published previously, either in terms of subject matter (for example osteological analysis from the Veneto and Roman Britain), or methodologies and perspectives drawn from outside the classical disciplines (for example in the study of demography and kinship). One of our principle aims in these two volumes is to include a sense of the excitement and vibrancy of the ideas expressed at the conference in Gothenburg as participants met, often for the first time, and discussed new understandings and new thoughts about a common interest in the family in antiquity. These volumes are not the end of this project, but one of its outputs. To enable younger researchers undertaking doctoral research to interact, students from the Universities of Birmingham and Gothenburg set up a website to enable the discussion of the life course in antiquity. It is important for this next generation of academics to be able to interact and develop contacts in ways that were unimaginable when we ourselves were students; and, given the current uncertainty of the future in the present economic climate, there is a need for us to ensure that we do not lose a generation of researchers (as occurred, for example, in the UK in the 1980s). With this in mind, an initiative has been set up to promote the study of the family in antiquity in Swedish Higher Education that will involve the participation of other European scholars. The production of these volumes has consistently reminded us of the joy, professionalism, and enthusiasm that the participants brought with them to Gothenburg in 2009. These qualities carried this project forward to publication. We hope readers will see these qualities in the written versions produced by the authors in a timely fashion for each volume. Here, we need to thank Céline Murphy for her invaluable help in editing both volumes – she has been meticulous in her work, we the editors take responsibility for any errors. Finally, we must acknowledge that none of this would have been possible without the support of the following sponsors of the conference: Professor Göran Malmstedt and the Department of Historical Studies, University of Gothenburg for hosting the conference The Swedish Research Council The Swedish foundation for the Cooperation in Research and Higher Education The Institute of Archaeology and Antiquity and the College of Arts and Law, University of Birmingham The Classical Association (UK) The Institute of Classical Studies, University of London Stiftelsen Harald och Tonny Hagendahls Minnesfond The Wenner Gren Foundation

P reface

xv

Berg Publishers (UK) The Society for the Study of Childhood in the Past The University of Kent, Faculty of Humanities (for funding the invaluable Céline Murphy) Michael Greenwood at Continuum Mary Harlow (University of Birmingham) Lena Larsson Lovén (University of Gothenburg) Ray Laurence (University of Kent) Agneta Strömberg (University of Gothenburg)

1

Introduction: Looking Forward Mary Harlow and Lena Larsson Lovén This collection of papers is the second volume resulting from the Oikos – Familia conference held at the University of Gothenburg in November 2009. In our preliminary discussions about the nature of the conference we recognized that ideas of continuity and change rarely get an airing as we do not often have the time or luxury to shift our focus from our own chosen specialized periods and methodologies. To that end we decided to set a very wide ranging call for papers – and were not disappointed. However, the programme in the end reflected much of agendas of existing scholarship, with a good deal more interest in the Roman side than the Greek or Hellenistic. This bias is also reflected in the two volumes, which have also had to respond to the publisher’s need for potential markets. They are best read, studied and used as a pair, but we appreciate that individual interests, research agendas and teaching requirements – not to mention student budgets – need focused volumes. The papers in this volume reflect current work on the Roman and later Roman period, stretching geographically across the Empire and methodologically from more traditional uses of literature and demography, to more innovative approaches of iconography, archaeology and osteoarchaeology. As with Volume 1 it is not our intention in the introduction to comment on individual papers; instead Professor Natalie Kampen has kindly offered an Afterword on the range of themes included here. Along with Mark Golden, who wrote the Afterword for Volume 1, Natalie Kampen was a great influence on and supporter of the conference in 2009; her paper is included in Volume 1. We owe them both thanks for their continued support. In the recognition that many readers of this volume will not have read Volume 1, we reprise a little of the substance of the introduction to the first volume here – not least because we too wish to honour Beryl Rawson and her contribution to the discipline which she started with the series of Roman Family conferences, commencing in Australia in the 1980s. Her death has left us all the poorer but her last edited volume, the Wiley-Blackwell Companion to Families in the Greek and Roman Worlds (2010) is a fitting tribute to both her influence of where the study of the family in antiquity has come from and where it is going. The use of the plural in the title is indicative of the results of recent research. Scholars in the last half of the twentieth century sought to create frameworks and parameters within which we could look at the ancient family. This included an interest in the legal perspective to uncover apparent norms by which we could judge much of the anecdotal evidence that came from literature. Research into the

2

Families in the R oman and L ate A ntiq u e R oman Wo rld

demographics of the Roman world, pioneered by Richard Saller and Brent Shaw, undermined the structure-driven approach of legal experts and produced a new framework within which to look at family shape and interaction.1 Studies of marriage and inheritance networks had to reflect the social realities of a world where a vast majority of the population might not live beyond the age of 30. By the early 1990s we had begun to accept that the nuclear family – albeit a carefully contextualized version – was the norm among at least most of the Roman world, with Egypt always standing out as an exception (see Pudsey, this volume). A recent collection of papers edited by Sabine Huebner and David Ratzen (2009) has examined the reality presented by demography in Growing Up Fatherless in Antiquity, and a renewed interest in the role of the extended family has arisen.2 As the series of Roman Family conferences progressed so the interests in wider aspects of family interaction and relationships grew. Influenced by gender studies and the social sciences, historians of antiquity found inspiration in examining the use of social space and the material culture of family life; in age and ageing (including childhood, youth and old age); in medical history; in the history of emotion – to name but a few of the recent directions in the growing bibliography of the family. Scholars recognized early on that despite our best efforts in creating social norms in which to situate the Roman family, there was ‘no one size fits all’ model. Models remain models; they are useful tools to work with but even among the elite we have to recognize that families are made up of individuals who have not read our rule books. So, the Families of Beryl Rawson’s last edited volume is part of the way forward. We need to acknowledge the plurality and complexity of families – or households – in the past while retaining a pragmatic approach that sees these families existing in the social structures of the communities in which they lived. In 2005 the Roman Family Conference series branched out into the provinces of the Roman Empire and which made many of the contributors face the scarcity of evidence (e.g. in particular see Greg Woolf on Roman Gaul).3 It is precisely the fragmentary and often slippery nature of the evidence for private life that has made historians of the family work hard to develop critical approaches to their subject. It is not too much to say that by absorbing the methodologies of other disciplines, particularly the social sciences, and by taking a multidisciplinary approach themselves, historians of the family, alongside those who work on gender have forced a change in the way the discipline is taught. In the plethora of ‘companion’ volumes for the ancient world that have appeared in the past few years, there is hardly a one without a chapter on the family, and some which make social history a key element. The Fifth Roman Family conference took place in Fribourg (Switzerland) in 2007 with the title ‘Secret Families, Family Secrets’. This was the first Roman Family Conference to be held in Europe and the publication, Children, Memory and Family Identity in Roman Culture (2010) (edited by Véronique Dasen and Thomas Späth), reflects recent trends in scholarship with a concentration on the history of childhood, social memory and social identity.

I ntr o d u ctio n

3

It is clear that the study of the history of the family in antiquity has come a long way since Beryl Rawson’s early work in the 1960s, but it remains predominantly focused on the Roman world. We need to work to undermine this preoccupation. New work is beginning to emerge from historians of the Greek and Hellenistic worlds, some of it in Volume 1 of this series. In the Wiley-Blackwell’s companion some scholars offered comparative work (e.g. Véronique Dasen, Hugh Lindsay) but this is rare. It is rare not just because it is hard to do in real depth in short chapters but also because time periods and the differing range of evidence mean that some comparative studies are in effect a comparison of case studies.4 Even here we find the comparison often means Classical Athens and Late Republic/Early Imperial Rome. This is not invalid in itself but it does mean some of the thornier issues are skated over. One of the aims of the Gothenburg conference was to bring this problem to the surface and to discuss ways in which we might approach it. Some areas of family history have also come under particular scrutiny. There have been serious inroads into the study of childhood and old age. Adulthood, however, remains a relatively undifferentiated stage of life (see Harlow and Laurence, forthcoming). Women, both as part of the domestic realm and as of themselves, have been the focus of literally hundreds of books and articles since the publication of Sarah Pomeroy’s then ground-breaking Wives, Goddesses and Whores in 1975. Gender studies has much to offer the history of the family and the two often work in tandem in more current volumes, placing women in the household and examining ideas of masculinity. In the introduction to Volume 1 Ray Laurence discussed the apparently gendered nature of the study of the family in antiquity highlighting the different foci of female and male scholars. However, while anecdotally we might look at where research interests lie and how they diverge or come together on gendered lines, family history is not quite the preserve of women that gender studies in Classics courses has become in the UK.5 Studying the family makes us face our own prejudices and subjective experiences of both our own families and those we might personally interact with. Historical distance allows us to make some over-arching, but informed, generalizations but we are ever at the mercy of the evidence, which is inevitably fragmentary. There are areas where work can be done. In Volume 1 Laurence suggests the symbolic language of the family could be investigated further, as this has so far raised relatively little interest among historians of antiquity, (with the exception of those who have looked at cultural memory).6 The iconography of the family is also an area that could be further developed. Janet Huskinson, Beryl Rawson and others have evolved critical methodologies in looking at images of Roman children and it is an area that merits further development (see Maureen Carroll and Jason Mander, in this volume, and Natalie Kampen vol. 1).7 The role of domestic space has been the subject of a series of papers and books, but peopling that space is still problematic.8 In a stimulating paper for the Gothenburg conference Natalie Kampen considered the image of family found

4

Families in the R oman and L ate A ntiq u e R oman Wo rld

in Pompeian wall painting but the responses of inhabitants to the decoration of their homes is also a matter for further investigation (see also Kampen, 2009).9 In studying the history of the family we face the same problem that those involved with gender studies have been challenged by: how do we move from the sources to social reality? This is our challenge: to create a social reality (or rather realities) with all the caveats required, that is more than representation. In the ancient world people lived in close contact with others: they got married (or something similar), they had children whom they raised in some fashion, they played, they worked and they became sick, they mourned their dead and occasionally produced elaborate memorials to them. Mark Golden prefers ‘to think of the Greeks and Romans as devoted parents, deeply troubled by the dangers which beset their children’.10 He goes on to remind us of the subjective nature of our topic: we should test not only our opinions about the past but also about ourselves. In this sense the ‘conversation between the present and the past’ that is ancient history11 means we cannot allow modern sensibilities to cloud our judgement. Golden is talking about children and childcare in the past. Historians of childhood recognize that even in Europe and the United States opinions about childcare are very culturally specific, and very different practices take place even within a shared culture – but still we need to examine antiquity by its own varied values, prejudices and ideals. We should not shy away from the challenge of uncovering social realities. As part of this ‘conversation’, the present can also help frame our thinking about the past. Professor Pat Thane recently compiled a report for the British Academy Policy Centre, entitled Happy Families? History and Family Policy (October 2010). This report, the first of its kind, is a response to the need for the humanities to have a voice in matters of public policy. As a document it makes the point very succinctly that we need to learn from the past, and that policy makers today could learn from the debates which surrounded issues that were and are still current. However, if history is going to be invoked on either side of a debate it should be as accurate as possible. Thane’s themes are with family patterns and stability; child welfare; domestic violence and poverty; and finally with examining the links between changes in the family and wider social change from the late 1700s onwards.12 The sources are in a very different vein to those that exist for antiquity, and while England and Wales of the last two centuries cannot be compared to Greece and Rome at any period in their history, the results of Thane’s survey do have resonance: large numbers of children were likely to grow up without male role models and live in households run by widows;13 unless women were wealthy and had resources of their own they were unlikely to divorce as they were financially dependent and, until 1924, had no right of guardianship to their children, and even then only up to the age of 7;14 many parents would not be legally married but still be raising children in a ‘family’; there was an almost continual moral panic about the state of the family;15 remarriage was more common for men, often creating complex sets of step-children;16 the physical and sexual abuse of women and children was of

I ntr o d u ctio n

5

concern, but responses to it fluctuated; family size changed during the period with numbers of birth per female falling from about six in the late eighteenth century to an average of two by the 1930s while life expectancy increased.17 Increase in longevity led to more complex families of up to four generations and a higher proportion of elderly in the population. Most recently we see the shift again in family pattern with the use of technology which keeps mobile family members or units in contact with others; and, with grandparents taking childcare roles as the middle generations maintain the economic position of the family. Most significantly, Thane finds little evidence to show that there is any relationship between family patterns and wider social change.18 Apart from the more traditional topics of marriage, divorce and the effects and implications of demographic realities, some of the themes taken up by Thane have also been the object of study for ancient historians: Pomeroy on domestic violence; Huebner et al. on growing up fatherless and the lack of male role models; Laes and Mustakallio and contributors to The Dark Side of Childhood on the issue of child abandonment (2011). This returns us to Mark Golden’s idea of ancient history as a conversation between the present and the past. He follows this up with a plea not to let the ‘values or preconceptions of the present drown out the past’.19 We need to make our subject relevant, but in its own terms. We need to recognize relevant associations and take on their implications in an attempt to uncover the everyday of family lives in the past. This is our job as ancient historians after all.

Notes 1

The bibliography on the Roman family is too vast to condense into a footnote but we should mention here the seminal work of Richard Saller and Brent Shaw, 1984; Saller, 1994 and Parkin, 1992. 2 Sabine Huebner and Geoffrey Nathan are currently in the process of publishing a collection of papers on Extended and Joint Family Systems in the Ancient World. 3 (ed.) Michele George, 2005. Woolf in same volume. 4 On the use of case studies see Harlow and Parkin in Erskine (ed.); Harlow and Laurence (ed.), 2010, where the wide chronological range of the volume required defined focus, best exemplified in case studies. 5 Blundell, 2009. 6 Papers in Dasen and Späth, 2010. 7 For iconography see Huskinson, 1996; 2007a, 2007b. Papers in Cohen and Rutter, 2007. Kampen, 2009. 8 See most recent survey on both Greece and Rome by Nevett, 2010, and her bibliography. 9 Kampen, 2009. 10 Golden, 2010, p. 274. 11 Ibid. 12 Thane, 2010, pp. 5, 17. 13 Ibid., 45 ff. 14 Ibid., 2010, pp. 38, 43. 15 Ibid., pp. 62–64. 16 Ibid., p. 47.

6

Families in the R oman and L ate A ntiq u e R oman Wo rld

17 Ibid., pp. 51–52. 18 Ibid., p. 68. 19 Golden, 2010, p. 274.

Bibliography Blundell, S. (2009), ‘Gender and the Classics curriculum: a survey’, Arts and Humanities in Higher Education, 8, (2), 136–159. Cohen, A. and Rutter, J. (eds) (2007), Constructions of Childhood in the Ancient Mediterranean, Princeton: Princeton University Press. Dasen, V. and Späth, T. (eds) (2010), Children, Memory & Family Identity in Roman Culture, Oxford: Oxford University Press. George, M. (ed.) (2005), The Roman Family in the Empire. Rome, Italy, and Beyond, Oxford: Oxford University Press. Harlow, M. and Laurence, R. (eds) (2010), A Cultural History of Childhood and the Family, Oxford: Berg. Harlow, M. and Parkin, T. (2009), ‘The Greek and Roman family’, in Erskine, A. (ed.) Blackwell’s Companion to Ancient History, Oxford: Blackwell, pp. 329–341. Huebner, S. and Ratzan, D. (ed.) (2009), Growing Up Fatherless in Antiquity, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Huskinson, J. (2007a), ‘Growing up in Ravenna: evidence from the decoration of children’s sarcophagi’, in Harlow, M. and Laurence, R. (eds), Age and Ageing in the Roman Empire, Portsmouth: Journal of Roman Archaeology, pp. 55–79. —(2007b), ‘Constructing childhood on Roman funerary monuments’ in Cohen, A. and Rutter, J. (eds), Constructions of Childhood in the ancient Mediterranean, Princeton: Princeton University Press, pp. 323–328. Kampen, N. (2009), Family Fictions in Roman Art. Essays on the Representation of Powerful People, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Mustakallio, K. and Laes, C. (eds) (2001), The Dark Side of Childhood in Late Antiquity and the Middle Ages, Oxford: Oxbow Books. Nevett, L. (2010), Domestic Space in Classical Antiquity, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Parkin, T. (1992), Demography and Roman Society, Baltimore and London: Johns Hopkins University Press. Pomeroy, S. (2007), The Murder of Regilla: A Case of Domestic Violence in Antiquity, Harvard: Harvard University Press. Saller, R. (1994), Patriarchy, Property and Death in the Roman Family, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Saller, R. P. and Shaw, B. D. (1984), ‘Tombstones and Roman family relations in the principate: Civilians, soldiers, and slaves’, JRS, 74, 124–156. Thane, P. (2010), Happy Families? History and Family Policy, London: British Academy.

2

Pliny the Nephew: Youth and Family Ties across Generations and Genders Claude-Emmanuelle Centlivres Challet This paper investigates how Pliny the Younger describes youth and how young and old people of opposite sexes stand in relation to each other in his letters. Glimpses given by Pliny into relationships between family members across generations will be explored to show that a traditional voice that speaks of ideological qualities and gender roles is counterbalanced by an individual voice that speaks of everyday activities and interactions that go beyond a categorization of genders into two distinct, opposed spheres.1 The influence of Simone de Beauvoir has pervaded the field of Classics and studies pivoting on the notion of woman as ‘other’ have flourished, alongside, paradoxically, studies exploring shifting boundaries and the flexibility of gender categories in antiquity.2 However, the study of the similarities between Roman men and women that emerge from literary sources still has unexpected information to yield about gender relationships.3 This paper proposes to shift scholarly attention from men and women as separate, opposed categories and put the emphasis on the way individuals of different sexes can act and play a role outside the limits culturally imposed by gender, as well as on the dynamic of male–female relationships across generations. The correspondence of Pliny is but one example of a literary source within which two opposing voices describing male and female categories as both distinct and overlapping run in parallel.4 The interest in examining Pliny’s views on youth lies in the fact that Pliny is a true representative of the moderate elite, a public figure who wishes to blend into the political tapestry of his time, and an author who would prefer not to make literary waves in his quest for eternal fame and canonical posterity.5 The scope offered by the Letters is attractive since it presents a self-contained corpus of texts by an author about whom we know a great deal, mainly thanks to the information he provides himself through his correspondence. This should of course make us cautious in our handling of the information, since Pliny’s desire to show himself in a congenial light influences his writing.6 Moreover, his letters are to men and women of his own circle, and thus mirror the concerns of a minority of people. He delves into family relationships, writing about births, marriages, inheritances, illnesses and deaths, concerning all members of the family tree and their relationships, mentioning their emotional as well as their intellectual exchanges. He mentions many women and comments in a casual

8

Families in the R oman and L ate A ntiq u e R oman Wo rld

way on some of their activities, whether they be legal, financial, political or intellectual, providing opportunities to observe how he describes individuals of opposing genders interacting on a domestic and realistic level.7 Pliny says that he chose to publish the letters si quas paulo curatius scripsisse[t] (1.1.1), out of chronological order. Scholarship today tends to agree with Sherwin-White that Pliny’s letters were written for, and sent to, their addressees – that Pliny did not invent a persona from scratch, as it were – and that their polished style and content, as well as the selection of letters, is to be accounted for by Pliny’s background as an orator and a barrister, as well as by his craving for literary fame.8 Indeed Pliny is eager to put himself in the best light, and writes nothing that could alienate his readership. He aims to please the greatest number, and with this in mind he presents himself as the perfect senator, lawyer, friend, husband and even lover, in words expected of one of his standing. In short, what he says does not mean to provoke or shock his contemporaries, and the events he relates can be considered as mirroring the mentality of his peers and of his time.

Traditional Youth Pliny the Younger is now known to us both by his name and by his family affiliation: he is the well-known nephew of the equally well-known Pliny the Elder. The two men are differentiated by their respective generational position within a family.9 Pliny himself makes an appearance in his Letters as a very young man when he gives us a glimpse of the expected qualities of his 17-year-old self when Mount Vesuvius erupted in AD 79. He explains that in the face of danger he retained his calm, hovering between the qualities of a grown up and that of a child: My mother hurried into my room and found me already getting up to wake her if she were still asleep. We sat down in the forecourt of the house, between the buildings and the sea close by. I do not know whether I should call this courage or folly on my part (I was only seventeen at the time) but I called for a volume of Livy and went on reading as if I had nothing else to do. I even went on with the extracts I had been making.10

Pliny himself draws attention to his young age, and suggests to the reader the idea that his inexperience could be also read as courage. Similarly, when his mother urges him to flee, as she finds the thought of wasting his young life unbearable, he refuses to escape without her: Then my mother implored, entreated, and commanded me to escape as best I could – a young man might escape, whereas she was old and slow and could die in peace as long as she had not been the cause of my death, too. I told her I refused to save myself without her, and, grasping her hand, forced her to quicken her pace.11



P liny the N ephew

9

Again Pliny emphasizes his youth, which enhances his courage for not trying to escape without his mother, however perilous the flight might prove with her slowing him down. And when his uncle the Elder offers to take him to go and examine the volcano at close range, the Younger refuses to accompany him: He ordered a fast boat to be made ready, telling me I could come with him if I wished. I replied that I preferred to go on with my studies, and as it happened he had himself given me some writing to do.12

Pliny shows an astonishing keenness to study under the exceptional circumstances, and a similarly astonishing subservience to his uncle’s advice concerning his studies. This epitomizes qualities expected of traditional youth and of the relationship between the younger and older generations: studiousness, and obedience to one’s elders.13 It also gives us a glimpse of the traditional divide between genders, since Pliny shows obedience to his uncle, but displays courage in the presence of his mother.14 In the above passages a recurring Roman theme emerges, that of the social importance of the young individual, who represents renewal of the population in a military empire, and transmission of patrimony, family name and history.15 As Pliny writes to Calpurnius Fabatus, grandfather of his wife Calpurnia: And indeed you do not desire great-grandchildren more ardently than I desire children, children before whom lie, it seems, thanks to their affiliation to me and to you, a path favourable to honours, and to whom I shall leave names having a good and widespread reputation, and a long-established lineage.16

Pliny states clearly in a letter about his friend Asinius Rufus that reproduction is a civic duty: In fact he also fulfilled his duty as the best of citizens in that he wanted to make the most of the fertility of his wife, at a time when for most people the advantages of remaining childless make even single children feel like burdens.17

Here Pliny also recognizes the principal traditional quality of the female gender: the reproductory function. Furthermore, reproduction is associated with youth, as Pliny makes clear in his eulogy of Minicia Marcella, daughter of his friend Fundanus, who passed away before her fourteenth birthday: The time of her death is even more abominable than death itself! She was already destined to marry a remarkable young man, the day of the wedding had already been chosen, we had already been asked to attend it.18

This mors immatura is a double tragedy: the loss of a child and the shattering of the hope for descendants. Like the young Pliny, Minicia combines the qualities

10

Families in the R oman and L ate A ntiq u e R oman Wo rld

of the child with that of the grown up; the writer and family friend shows Minicia basking in the glow of the puer senex motive: She was not yet fourteen years old, and already she had the sagacity of an old woman, the gravity of a matron, and yet a youthful sweetness with virginal modesty [ … ] With what temperance, with what patience and even firmness did she bear her new condition! She obeyed her doctors, encouraged her father and sister, and supported herself although deprived of physical strength by the force of her soul. This she retained until the end, and neither the course of her illness nor fear of death broke it.19

Pliny himself is thwarted in his reproductory plans since his teenage wife Calpurnia suffered a miscarriage.20 He reports the news in two letters: to Calpurnius Fabatus, grandfather of his wife, and to Calpurnia Hispulla, her aunt: The more you desire to have great-grandchildren by us, the sadder you will be to hear that your granddaughter had a miscarriage, as she did not know, the innocent young woman, that she was pregnant, and that way she omitted to take care of what pregnant women should take care of, and did what should have been omitted; greatly imperilled, she paid dearly for her error by an unforgettable lesson. Hence just as it is unavoidable that you should grieve at the news that your old age should be deprived of descendants as it were almost provided, you should thank the gods, for while they have refused you great-grandchildren for the present, in order to save your granddaughter, they will give them to you in the future, those for whom her fertility now observed, although in a most unhappy fashion, gives us firmer hope.21 ‘The danger was indeed grave – I hope I may safely say so now – through no fault of her own, but perhaps of her youth’.22

In both passages Pliny insists on the youth and inexperience of his wife, suggesting that her naivety caused the improper behaviour which resulted in the miscarriage. The event is a sad one but there is still hope since Calpurnia’s ability to conceive has been witnessed, says Pliny. He also empathizes with her grandfather who has been thus deprived of descendants. It was the done thing, in Pliny’s time, to wish publicly to have descendants, even if privately it could be considered a burden.23 Pliny himself says to Trajan, when thanking him for granting him the ius trium liberorum: ‘I have no words to tell you, Sir, how much pleasure you have given me by thinking me fit for the privileges granted to parents of three children’24 and: ‘Still more now do I long for children of my own, though I wanted them even during those evil days now past, as you may know from my having married twice’.25 It is not any descendants that are wanted, but children that resemble their parents or grandparents and follow in their footsteps. Pliny writes to Julius Servianus about the latter’s future son-in-law: ‘He still has to give you promptly grandchildren resembling their father.’26 To Corellia Hispulla, who has asked



P liny the N ephew

11

Pliny to find a mentor for her son, grandchild of Pliny’s beloved Corellius Rufus, he says: I must desire and also try my hardest to make your son take after his grandfather; admittedly, I would prefer him to take after his maternal grandfather, although he has a paternal grandfather also famed and remarkable, as well as a father and an uncle who are illustrious and acclaimed. He will really grow up to resemble them all only if taught proper talents, and it matters above all that he be taught them by the best of teachers.27

To Pliny, the resemblance between father, or grandfather, and son has to be moulded. It is noteworthy that he does not mention the innate resemblance that would spring naturally between grandfather, father and son. And since this resemblance has to be acquired, can it be acquired by someone of the opposite sex? Can the link that Pliny wishes to establish between male members of the same family across generations be established between male and female members, too?

Beyond Tradition In the sources documenting the qualities and roles attributed to each culturally imposed gender, polarity is ubiquitous. This traditional separation of male and female is common to Roman authors and artists; it orientates our view of Roman society. According to this traditional view, gender is categorized along a binary definition, a categorization which we tend to see as also defining family relationships: such sources recognize a vertical affiliation between males on one side, and females on the other, with male and female lines running in parallel. Saller convincingly argued that ‘a systematic study of language and behaviour of the Romans […] does not suggest highly differentiated roles based on opposition of sentiments towards paternal and maternal kin, except in certain limited circumstances’.28 His observations questioned scholarship’s recognition of the many intersecting lines of descent. A review of Pliny’s descriptions of family relations shows that a convergence and even inversion of gender roles across generations appear throughout his letters: passages going counter to the traditional binary view show indeed that individuals from different genders could not only be deemed to resemble each other, but could replace each other under various circumstances. Regarding the father of 14-year-old Minicia Marcella, Pliny says: ‘Indeed he lost a daughter who evoked him in character no less than in features and expression, and who was entirely her father’s image.’29 Pliny draws an astonishing parallel between father and daughter: the traditional likeness of father and son is here altered to fit this other reality which parallels tradition. The daughter not only resembles her father physically, but in character and attitude too. This is all the more striking since her father, Fundanus, is greatly admired

12

Families in the R oman and L ate A ntiq u e R oman Wo rld

by Pliny for being eruditus et sapiens as we learn in another letter.30 The qualities with which she is endowed are traditionally male qualities, related to intellectual abilities and activities, and to philosophical and literary education. Pliny equates father and daughter without value judgement, without commenting on it, almost in passing.31 What is more, Fundanus, counter to the usual topos of the nursing mother, endorses the role of carer when he takes care of his daughter Minicia Marcella on her sick-bed.32 Even if Pliny’s aim was to flatter his friend Fundanus by praising his daughter’s many qualities inevitably reflecting on her father, the paradox is a striking one: the girl, despite being presented in a way fitting her age and gender, in her traditional guise, ready to be married, is at the same time shown resembling her father and following in his footsteps in her character and morals. It appears therefore that the child, the adult-to-be, the individual who still has to be shaped can actually be modelled along the mould of the other gender.33 Pliny praises his wife Calpurnia in a letter to her aunt in the same way: ‘I do not doubt that you will rejoice immensely when you know that she has grown to be worthy of her father, of yourself, of her grandfather.’34 Thus not only does Calpurnia take after her aunt, but also after her father and grandfather. Conversely, Pliny praises the education that Calpurnia received from her aunt (the sister of Calpurnia’s father) in the following manner: ‘You love his [your brother’s] daughter as if she were your own, and you represent to her the source of affection not only of an aunt, but of the father she lost.’35 The aunt gives her niece paternal, not maternal affection as one would have expected.36 It is the father whom she replaces as a source of affection. Strikingly, this crossing of gender boundaries is not registered by modern scholars, who perpetuate traditional ideals by misreading this passage.37 Another example of a woman standing in for a male member of her family is Calvina, who inherits her father’s debts at his death, and whom Pliny offers to help financially. ‘You have here a great proof of my readiness to oblige, and you must defend the reputation and the honour of your late father with the confidence it gives you.’38 Pliny offers the example of a woman who represents her father and is in a position, or is expected, to defend his reputation. He thus proposes ties between father and daughter that go beyond family roles and beyond gender since she can stand in for her father as a representative of the family.39 In a similar way, Pliny has a young man taking after his grandmother: in the praise of Minicius Acilianus as a potential bridegroom, Pliny brings to the fore the virtues of the young man’s father and uncle, as well as that of his grandmother, Serrana Procula, who is a model of virtue.40 In the praise of Acilianus and his family background, a woman stands in for ancestry and is used to show the quality of the lineage, alongside Acilianus’s father and uncle. Pliny gives us a last example of role interchange within the family, across generations and across male and female genders, when he tells Calpurnia



P liny the N ephew

13

Hispulla, his wife’s aunt: ‘You have [ … ] guided and encouraged me since childhood.’41 We have seen that Pliny describes with warmth his mother’s courage and readiness to sacrifice her life to save her son, and we can deduce his affectionate feelings for, or at least his fidelity to, his old nurse from the fact that he gave her a farm to ensure her a pension.42 He similarly shows his loyalty and affection to Calpurnia Hispulla, whom he has known for a long time. However, concerning the latter he suggests that the bond uniting her to him is not only based on sentiments, pietas, or practical care but encompasses notions of education, too. The verb formare points strongly in the direction of intellectual and moral shaping of a young, and yet to be formed, mind. The credit Pliny gives Calpurnia Hispulla goes beyond that of affectionate support and pat on the back expected of a member of the extended family or friend whose sex would traditionally preclude active influencing of a youngster of the opposite sex in a way that would help to build a future politician and influential barrister.43

Conclusion Pliny is considered, and certainly considered himself, the epitome of political correctness at the turn of the first century AD. A defender of traditional values, whether domestic or political, he aimed at embodying the ideal man of his time, honnête homme of many talents,44 keen to ‘subscribe to the old Roman commonplaces’, sharing with Tacitus ‘a touching belief in the moral superiority of people like themselves’, in the apt words of Miriam Griffin.45 In his description of youth, Pliny presents qualities and notions that are deemed traditional or typical – inexperience, naivety, obedience, studiousness, fruitfulness, resemblance between men of the same line of descent. However, for all his conservatism he also offers a view of intergenerational ties across genders that defy preconceptions: the capacities of individual members of a family to stand in or replace a member of the opposite sex. The flexibility of kinship ties resulting from the manipulation of family alliances through marriages, divorces, and adoptions, the consequent dislocation of the family, and the absence of fathers (dead or absent) has been shown to shape family structures across a wide spectrum of variations.46 In Pliny’s world, a daughter could take after her father (Minicia), a granddaughter could take after her grandfather (Calpurnia), a daughter could represent her father (Calvina), a grandson could take after his grandmother (Acilianus), and an aunt could replace a father (Calpurnia Hispulla). Pliny himself, although he presents his younger self as endowed with traditional qualities, notes that he owes a woman a notable and durable influence on his life, expanding yet again the possibilities of role interchanges within the family. The flexibility of the boundaries of gender roles in the family as we see it in Pliny shows that men and women could behave counter to their culturally set and ideological roles.

14

Families in the R oman and L ate A ntiq u e R oman Wo rld

We thus note, in Pliny’s description of family members and family ties, the presence of two voices: that of tradition and ideals and that of individual and realistic interactions. The juxtaposition of these two voices mirrors a duality of mentalities that raises two issues: first, ancient authors reflect a similar ambivalence in their writings without any overt awareness of this; and second, it gives us a glimpse of women’s potential leeway and influence, and male acceptability of this despite the dominant gender discourse. In reality men had to live, act and interact in this world of overlapping spheres, and the malleability of gender boundaries affected their own gender roles as well. For Pliny, with all his conventional desire to be acclaimed and loved, to be the proper man, did not hesitate to acknowledge in passing that he had been deeply influenced by his wife’s aunt, in a private letter which he chose to make public. He did not think it a jarring note to give credit, as a man, to an elder woman’s influence on his psyche and his life, as the man we now know as Pliny the Younger, the wellknown nephew of Calpurnia Hispulla. Acknowledgements. My warmest thanks go to the organizers of the fifth Arachne Conference: ‘Oikos-Familia, The Family in Greco-Roman Society: Framing the Discipline in the 21st Century’, held at the University of Gothenburg on 5–7 November 2009; I thank Ji-Eun Lee, and the participants of the conference, for their insightful comments, and the editors of this volume for their patience and keen eye.

Notes A similar dual discourse has been explored by Natalie Kampen in Image and Status: Roman Working Women in Ostia (1981) in sculptural representations. She notes that images of working women as carved on stone were of two kinds: ideological, ideal images and realistic, individual images. 2 Notably Le Deuxième Sexe (1949), translated into English in 1953 as The Second Sex. On woman as ‘other’ see for example: Skinner, 1997, pp. 8, 10 ff., 19; Walters, 1997, p. 32; Joshel, 1997, p. 240; Parker, 1998, p. 170; Dixon, 2001, xi; for more examples see Centlivres Challet, 2008. On the flexibility of gender categories see Halperin, 1990, on Plato’s Diotima and gender boundaries; Konstan, 1994, on sexual symmetry in the Greek novel; Zeitlin, 1985, 1996, on woman as both mimesis and opposed image of man in classical Greek literature; Stafford, 1998, on the gender of personifications of abstract qualities in Greek art and literature; Haley, 2002, on Lucian voicing the sexuality of homosexual or transgendered women; Skinner, 2005, pp. 272–281 on sexual symmetry in Roman and Greek novels; Skinner, 1983, on Dido and Aeneas reversing roles; Hallett, 1992, on Sulpicia and Cynthia, or female voices through male mouths; Skinner, 1993 on the ‘feminine’ persona of Catullus; Wyke, 1995, on the ‘feminization’ of elegy, as exemplified by the presence of Sulpicia’s elegies in the Tibullan corpus and Propertius’ submissiveness; Keith, 1997, on the persona of Sulpicia the elegist, the Dido of Virgil, and gender role inversions; Gamel, 1998, on the performance of gender in elegy; Janan, 2001, on role inversion and flexibility of gender categories in Propertius. For more historical approaches, see for instance Clark, 1998, on the complexity of the power relationships within the hierarchy of the household, and how slave women wielded influence; Harlow, 1998, p. 156 on how the polar system of the patriarchal classical world 1



P liny the N ephew

15

was undermined by ‘the awareness of the mother’s contribution to reproduction’; Derks, 2001, who showed that structuralist feminists’ contentions about Greek women’s subservience based on the ‘oikoidal model’ of the hierarchical structure of the household should be reconsidered. On Roman Imperial portraiture and the interchangeability of gender identities, see Varner, 2008. 3 In a 1989 article Hallett gives examples of women seen by their elite male kin as ‘same’ as well as ‘other’, following the terminology of Simone de Beauvoir. 4 For more on this dual discourse and its mirroring mentalities, see Centlivres Challet, C. E., Like Man, Like Woman: Roman Women Beyond Gender Roles and Male-Female Relationships at the Turn of the First Century, Oxford: Peter Lang (forthcoming). 5 See Hoffer, 1999; Morello, 2007; Fitzgerald, 2007; and Marchesi, 2008. 6 See Ludolph, 1997; Beutel, 2000; Henderson, 2002; and Morello et al., 2003. 7 For details on female individuals mentioned in the Letters, see Carlon, 2009. 8 Sherwin-White, 1966, pp. 11–20; see Lilja, 1969, 67, 71; Jal, 1993, 212–215. About the general absence of informality in the naming of people in the letters, see Jones, 1991, esp. 149. For a comprehensive discussion on the debate and scholarship about Pliny’s letters, see Aubrion, 1989. 9 Gaius Plinius Caecilius Secundus (AD 61/62 – 112/113), a senator from an equestrian family from Comum in Transpadana, was adopted by his maternal uncle Gaius Plinius Secundus (AD 23–79). He was quaestor and praetor under Domitian, became consul in AD 100, was sent to Pontus-Bithynia as governor by Trajan between AD 109 and 111, and is supposed to have died in the province between AD 111 and 113. For a summary of family ties and births, marriages, remarriages, old family members and deaths mentioned in the letters, see Bradley, 1993, 246–250. 10 (6.20.5): Latin quotations are from Oxford Classical Text and translations are my own. Inrupit cubiculum meum mater; surgebam invicem, si quiesceret excitaturus. Resedimus in area domus, quae mare a tectis modico spatio dividebat. Dubito, constantiam vocare an imprudentiam debeam (agebam enim duodevicensimum annum): posco librum Titi Livi, et quasi per otium lego atque etiam ut coeperam excerpo. On male transition to adulthood, see Eyben, 1981, 1993; Harlow and Laurence, 2002, pp.  65–78. On the traditional qualities of youth, in particular irrationality and courage, see Eyben, 1987, esp. 226–227. 11 (6.20.12): Tum mater orare hortari iubere, quoquo modo fugerem; posse enim iuvenem, se et annis et corpore gravem bene morituram, si mihi causa mortis non fuisset. Ego contra salvum me nisi una non futurum; dein manum eius amplexus addere gradum cogo. 12 (6.16.7) Iubet liburnicam aptari; mihi si venire una vellem facit copiam; respondi studere me malle, et forte ipse quod scriberem dederat. 13 See Eyben, 1987, 1991; Saller, 1988, 1994, pp. 102–132. 14 His uncle is here Pliny’s paternal figure; on ‘idols’ in the letters, see Eyben, 1972, 208–209; on fatherless men, paternal surrogates and mentors, see Bernstein, 2008, 2009; for the proportion of Romans with a living father, see Saller, 1994, pp. 66, 121, 208–209 and 43–65 for demographic simulations; for simulations of the proportion of fatherless children, see Scheidel, 2009. 15 See Dasen and Späth 2010. 16 (8.10.3): Neque enim ardentius tu pronepotes quam ego liberos cupio, quibus videor a meo tuoque latere pronum ad honores iter et audita latius nomina et non subitas imagines relicturus. 17 (4.15.3): Nam in hoc quoque functus est optimi civis officio, quod fecunditate uxoris large frui voluit, eo saeculo quo plerisque etiam singulos filios orbitatis praemia graves faciunt. 18 (5.16.6): O morte ipsa mortis tempus indignius! Iam destinata erat egregio iuveni, iam electus nuptiarum dies, iam nos vocati. 19 (5.16.2–5): Nondum annos xiiii impleverat, et iam illi anilis prudentia, matronalis gravitas erat et tamen suavitas puellaris cum virginali verecundia. [ …] Qua illa temperantia, qua patientia, qua etiam constantia novissimam valetudinem tulit! Medicis obsequebatur, sororem patrem adhortabatur ipsamque se destitutam corporis viribus vigore animi sustinebat. Duravit hic illi usque ad extremum, nec aut spatio valetudinis aut metu mortis infractus est. Her epitaph has twelve years eleven months and seven days (CIL 6.16631); on the discrepancy between her age

16

Families in the R oman and L ate A ntiq u e R oman Wo rld

at death as given by Pliny and that engraved on her epitaph, see Bodel, 1995. For scholarship on Minicia Marcella, see Hemelrijk, 1999, p. 259, n. 1. For scholarship on the motives of puer senex and mors immatura, see Hemelrijk, 1999, p. 259, n. 4. On female transition to adulthood, see Harlow and Laurence, 2002, pp. 54–64. 20 Calpurnia was Pliny’s second or third wife, and was a teenager while Pliny was well into his forties when they got married. Calpurnia’s grandfather was from Comum, like Pliny. 21 (8.10.1–2): Quo magis cupis ex nobis pronepotes videre, hoc tristior audies neptem tuam abortum fecisse, dum se praegnantem esse puellariter nescit, ac per hoc quaedam custodienda praegnantibus omittit, facit omittenda. Quem errorem magnis documentis expiavit in summum periculum adducta. Igitur, ut necesse est graviter accipias senectutem tuam quasi paratis posteris destitutam, sic debes agere dis gratias, quod ita tibi in praesentia pronepotes negaverunt, ut servarent neptem, illos reddituri, quorum nobis spem certiorem haec ipsa quamquam parum prospere explorata fecunditas facit. 22 (8.11.2): Fuit alioqui in summo discrimine, (impune dixisse liceat) fuit nulla sua culpa, aetatis aliqua. 23 4.15.3. 24 (10.2.1): Exprimere, domine, verbis non possum, quantum mihi gaudium attuleris, quod me dignum putasti iure trium liberorum. 25 (10.2.2): Eoque magis liberos concupisco, quos habere etiam illo tristissimo saeculo volui, sicut potes duobus matrimoniis meis credere. See Pan. 22.3 where Pliny says that women enjoy their fecundity now that it is to Trajan, the good emperor, that they give citizens and soldiers; see Currie, 1996. Both Martial (2.91, 92) and Pliny (10.2) were granted the ius trium liberorum without having had any known children; Pliny similarly solicited it from Nerva for Voconius Romanus (2.13.8), and from Trajan for Suetonius (10.94); on parental rights, see Dio Cass. 54.16.1; Suet. Aug. 34; see also Tac. Ann. 3.25, 28. For Augustus’s legislation on marriage, see Raditsa, 1980; Galinski, 1981; Bouvrie, 1984; Gardner, 1986, pp. 77–78; 79, n. 32 and passim; Treggiari, 1991a, pp.  60–80; Vigorita, 2002. For Pliny as paternal figure and mentor, see Bernstein, 2008. 26 (6.26.3): Superest ut avum te quam maturissime similium sui faciat. 27 (3.3.1–2): Cupiam necesse est atque etiam quantum in me fuerit enitar, ut filius tuus avo similis exsistat; equidem malo materno, quamquam illi paternus etiam clarus spectatusque contigerit, pater quoque et patruus inlustri laude conspicui. Quibus omnibus ita demum similis adolescet, si imbutus honestis artibus fuerit, quas plurimum refert a quo potissimum accipiat. 28 Saller, 1997, p. 10. 29 5.16.9: Amisit enim filiam, quae non minus mores eius quam os vultumque referebat, totumque patrem mira similitudine exscripserat. 30 5.16.8. 31 Cf. Cic. Q. Fr. 1.3.3 about his daughter Tullia: qua pietate, qua modestia, quo ingenio? Effigiem oris, sermonis, animi mei. 32 (5.16.4) No mention is made of the mother of the young girl; perhaps she is dead, or perhaps Pliny wished to mark the relationship of his friend Fundanus with the young deceased. About the possible identity of the mother, see Sherwin-White, 1966, p.  347. For the proportion of living mothers, see Scheidel, 2009, pp. 35–36, Fig. 3. 33 Quintilian, Pliny’s old master of rhetoric, suggests that daughters could take after their fathers when he says that ‘Laelia, the daughter of Caius, is said to have reproduced her father’s elegance in her language’ (Laelia C. filia reddidisse in loquendo paternam elegantiam dicitur) Inst. 1.1.6. Hallett, 1984, who investigates in Fathers and Daughters in Roman Society: Women and the Elite Family the link that could exist between fathers and daughters in a way that presents their relationship as more important than traditional views – ancient and modern – had observed, does not comment on the importance of this bond in relation to the flexibility of the boundary between genders and gender roles at large. 34 (4.19.1): non dubito maximo tibi gaudio fore cum cognoveris dignam patre dignam te dignam avo evadere. 35 (4.19.1): filiamque eius ut tuam diligas, nec tantum amitae ei adfectum verum etiam patris amissi repraesentes.



P liny the N ephew

17

36 We have no information about her mother. 37 E.g. for Hallett, the aunt shows a ‘maternal concern’ for Calpurnia, 1984, p. 168; Rawson speaks of the aunt as a ‘surrogate mother’, 2003, p.  243, and Dixon as a substitute for Calpurnia’s mother, not, as Pliny states, for Calpurnia’s father, 1988, p. 155. 38 (2.4.2): magnum habes facilitatis meae pignus, cuius fiducia debes famam defuncti pudoremque suscipere. It would be ‘a burden, even for a man’: hereditatem etiam viro gravem, 2.4.1. 39 See Hallett, 2009, p.  191 for a fatherless ‘daughter’s perspective’ and how ‘paternal absences’ could mean ‘empowerment as well as opportunities’. 40 Nosti loci mores: Serrana tamen Patavinis quoque severitatis exemplum est. 1.14.6. On the virtuous reputation of Patavium, see Mart. 11.16. 41 (4.19.7): me a pueritia statim formare laudare [ …] solebas. 42 On his mother, Noguerol, in her Freudian analysis of Pliny’s family, goes so far as to say that ‘Il est certain que le modèle d’identification fut la mère, certissima, et non le père, semper incertus’. (2003, p. 92). On his nurse, see Letter 6.3. 43 We should however not be surprised by the fact that Calpurnia Hispulla be educated enough to help forming Pliny’s mind, since matronae doctae populate Roman elite, as Hemelrijk comprehensively showed in 1999. Quintilian wished mothers to be highly knowledgeable (In parentibus vero quam plurimum esse eruditionis optaverim. Nec de patribus tantum loquor, Inst.1.1.6) and Pliny’s praise of Calpurnia’s aunt echoes what Quintilian says of Cornelia as a famous example of a mother greatly influencing her sons’ education: ‘We are told that Cornelia, mother of the Gracchi, contributed to a major extent to their eloquence, her greatly erudite style being also transmitted to posterity by her letters’ (nam Gracchorum eloquentiae multum contulisse accepimus Corneliam matrem, cuius doctissimus sermo in posteros quoque est epistulis traditus, Inst. 1.1.6). 44 See Gazich, 2003; Castagna, 2003; Lefèvre, 2003; Biffino, 2003; Bütler, 1970 and Trisoglio, 1972. 45 Griffin, 1999, 156. 46 On marriage, divorce and adoption: Treggiari, 1991b; Corbier, 1987, 1990, 1991. On the dislocation of the family: Bradley, 1987, 1991a, pp. 125–155, 156–76 (see also 1991b). On absent fathers: Saller, 1986, 1987; Imber, 2008; Hübner et al., 2009.

Bibliography Aubrion, E. (1989), ‘La “Correspondance” de Pline le Jeune: problèmes et orientations actuelles de la recherche’, in ANRW, 2, (33,1), pp. 304–374. Bernstein N. W. (2008), ‘Each man’s father served as his teacher: constructing relatedness in Pliny’s letters’, Classical Antiquity, 27, (2), 203–230. —(2009), ‘ ‘‘Cui parens non erat maximus quisque et uetustissimus pro parente”: paternal surrogates in imperial Roman literature’, in Huebner, S. R. and Ratzan, D. M. (eds), Growing Up Fatherless in Antiquity, Cambridge and New York: Cambridge University Press, pp. 241–256. Beutel, F. (2000), Vergangenheit als Politik. Neue Aspekte im Werk des Jüngeren Plinius, Frankfurt am Main, Bern: Peter Lang. Des Bouvrie, S. (1984), ‘Augustus’ legislation on morals – which morals and what aims?’, Symbolae Osloenses, 59, 93–113. Bradley, K. R. (1987), ‘Dislocation in the Roman family’, Historical Reflections/ Réflexions historiques, 14, 33–62. —(1991a), Discovering the Roman Family: Studies in Roman Social History, New York and Oxford: Oxford University Press.

18

Families in the R oman and L ate A ntiq u e R oman Wo rld

—(1991b), ‘Remarriage and the structure of the upper-class Roman family’, in Rawson, B. (ed.), Marriage, Divorce, and Children in Ancient Rome, Oxford: Clarendon Press, pp. 79–98. —(1993), ‘Writing the history of the Roman family’, Classical Philology, 88, 237–250. Bütler, H.-P. (1970), Die Geistige Welt des Jüngeren Plinius: Studien zur Thematik Seiner Briefe, Heidelberg: C. Winter. Carlon, J. M. (2009), Pliny’s Women: Constructing Virtue and Creating Identity in the Roman World, Cambridge and New York: Cambridge University Press. Castagna, L. (2003), ‘Teoria e prassi dell’amicizia in Plinio il Giovane’, in Castagna, L. and Lefèvre, E. (eds), Plinius der Jüngere und seine Zeit, München and Leipzig: K. G. Saur, pp. 145–172. Centlivres Challet, C.-E. (2008), ‘Not so unlike him: women in Quintilian, Statius and Pliny’, in Bertholet, F., Bielman Sánchez, A. and Frei-Stolba, R. (eds), Egypte – Grèce – Rome. Les Différents Visages des Femmes Antiques. Travaux et Colloques du Séminaire d’Epigraphie Grecque et Latine de l’IASA 2002–2006, Bern and New York: Peter Lang, pp. 289–324. —(forthcoming), Like Man, Like Woman: Roman Women Beyond Gender Roles and Male-Female Relationships at the Turn of the First Century, Oxford: Peter Lang. Clark, P. (1998), ‘Women, slaves, and the hierarchies of domestic violence. The family of St Augustine’, in Joshel, S. R. and Murnaghan, S. (eds), Women and Slaves in Greco-Roman Culture: Differential Equations, London and New York: Routledge, pp. 109–129. Corbier, M. (1987), ‘Les comportements familiaux de l’aristocratie romaine (IIe siècle avant J.-C.– IIIe siècle après J.-C.)’, Annales: économies, sociétés, civilisations, 42, 1267–1285. —(1990), ‘Construire sa parenté à Rome’, Revue Historique, 575, 3–36. —(1991), ‘Divorce and adoption as Roman familial strategies (le divorce et l’adoption ‘en plus’)’, in Rawson, B. (ed.), Marriage, Divorce, and Children in Ancient Rome, Oxford: Clarendon Press, pp. 47–78. Currie, S. (1996), ‘The empire of adults: the representation of children on Trajan’s arch at Beneventum’, in Elsner, J. (ed.), Art and Text in Roman Culture, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press: pp. 153–181. Dasen, V. and Späth, T. (2010), Children, Memory, and Family Identity in Roman Culture, Oxford: Oxford University Press. Derks, H. (2001), ‘Un mal splendide: hommes et femmes dans une “antiquité postféministe” , Dialogues d’Histoire Ancienne, 27, (2), 7–43. Dixon, S. (1988), The Roman Mother, Norman and London: University of Oklahoma Press. —(2001), Reading Roman Women: Sources, Genres and Real Life, London: Duckworth. Eyben, E. (1972), ‘The concrete ideal in the life of the young Roman’, L’Antiquité classique, 41, 200–217.



P liny the N ephew

19

—(1981), ‘Was the Roman “youth” an “adult” socially?’, L’Antiquité classique, 50, 328–350. —(1987), ‘What did “youth” mean to the Romans?’, Journal of Psychohistory, 14, (3), 207–232. —(1991), ‘Fathers and sons’, in Rawson, B. (ed.), Marriage, Divorce, and Children in Ancient Rome. Oxford: Clarendon Press, pp. 114–143. —(1993), Restless Youth in Ancient Rome, London and New York: Routledge. Fitzgerald, W. (2007), ‘The letter’s the thing (in Pliny, Book 7)’, in Morello, R. and Morrison, A. D. (eds), Ancient Letters. Classical and Late Antique Epistolography, Oxford: Oxford University Press, pp. 191–210. Galimberti Biffino, G. (2003), ‘Il temperamentum e l’uomo ideale dell’età traianea’, in Castagna, L. and Lefèvre, E. (eds), Plinius der Jüngere und seine Zeit. München and Leipzig: K. G. Saur, pp. 173–187. Galinsky, G. K. (1981), ‘Augustus’ legislation on morals and marriage’, Philologus, 125, 126–144. Gamel, M.-K. (1998), ‘Reading as a man: performance and gender in Roman elegy’, Helios, 25, (1), 79–95. Gardner, J. F. (1986), Women in Roman Law and Society, London: Croom Helm. Gazich, R. (2003), ‘Retorica dell’esemplarità nelle Lettere di Plinio’, in Castagna, L. and Lefèvre, E. (eds), Plinius der Jüngere und seine Zeit, München and Leipzig: K. G. Saur, pp. 123–141. Griffin, M. (1999), ‘Pliny and Tacitus’, Scripta Classica Israelica, 18, 139–158. Haley, S. P. (2002), ‘Lucian’s “Leaena and Clonarium”: voyeurism or a challenge to assumptions?’, in Rabinowitz, N. S. and Auanger, L. (eds), Among Women: From the Homosocial to the Homoerotic in the Ancient World, Austin: University of Texas Press, pp. 286–303. Hallett, J. P. (1984), Fathers and Daughters in Roman Society: Women and the Elite Family, Princeton: Princeton University Press. —(1989), ‘Women as same and other in classical Roman elite’, Helios, 16, (1), 59–78. —(1992), ‘Martial’s Sulpicia and Propertius’ Cynthia’, The Classical World, 86, (2), 99–123. —(2009), ‘Absent Roman fathers in the writings of their daughters: Cornelia and Sulpicia’, in Huebner, S. R. and Ratzan, D. M. (eds), Growing Up Fatherless in Antiquity, Cambridge and New York: Cambridge University Press, pp. 175–191. Halperin, D. M. (1990), ‘Why is Diotima a woman?’, in Halperin, D. M., One Hundred Years of Homosexuality: And Other Essays on Greek Love, New York and London: Routledge, pp. 113–151; (1990) abridged version: ‘Why is Diotima a woman? Platonic Eros and the figuration of gender’, in Halperin, D. M., Winkler, J. J. and Zeitlin, F. I. (eds), Before Sexuality: The Construction of Erotic Experience in the Ancient World, Princeton: Princeton University Press, pp. 257–308. Harlow, M. (1998), ‘In the name of the father: procreation, paternity and

20

Families in the R oman and L ate A ntiq u e R oman Wo rld

patriarchy’, in Foxhall, L. and Salmon, J. (eds), Thinking Men: Masculinity and its Self-Representation in the Classical Tradition, London and New York: Routledge, pp. 155–169. Harlow, M. and Laurence, R. (2002), Growing Up and Growing Old in Ancient Rome. A Life Course Approach, London: Routledge. Hemelrijk, E. A. (1999), Matrona Docta: Educated Women in the Roman Élite from Cornelia to Julia Domna, London and New York: Routledge. Henderson, J. G. W. (2002), Pliny’s Statue: The Letters, Self-Portraiture & Classical Art, Exeter: University of Exeter Press Hoffer, S. (1999), The Anxieties of Pliny the Younger, New York: Oxford University Press. Huebner, S. R. and Ratzan, D. M. (eds) (2009), Growing Up Fatherless in Antiquity, Cambridge and New York: Cambridge University Press. Imber, M. (2008), ‘Life without father: declamation and the construction of paternity in the Roman empire’, in Bell, S. and Hansen, I. L. (eds), Role Models in the Roman World: Identity and Assimilation. Memoirs of the American Academy in Rome. Supplementary Volume 7, Ann Arbor: The University of Michigan Press, for the American Academy in Rome, pp. 161–169. Jal, P. (1993), ‘Pline épistolier, écrivain superficiel? Quelques remarques’, Revue des études latines, 71, 212–27. Janan, M. W. (2001), The Politics of Desire: Propertius IV, Berkeley and London: University of California Press. Jones, F. (1991), ‘Naming in Pliny’s letters’, Symbolae Osloenses, 66, 147–170. Joshel, S. R. (1997), ‘Female desire and the discourse of Empire: Tacitus’s Messalina’, in Hallett, J. P. and Skinner, M. B. (eds), Roman Sexualities, Princeton: Princeton University Press, pp. 221–254; (1995), Signs: Journal of Women in Culture and Society, 21, (1), 50–82. Kampen, N. (1981), Image and Status: Roman Working Women in Ostia, Berlin: Gebr. Mann Verlag. Keith, A. (1997), ‘Tandem venit amor: a Roman woman speaks of love’, in Hallett, J. P. and Skinner, M. B. (eds), Roman Sexualities, Princeton: Princeton University Press, pp. 295–310. Konstan, D. (1994), Sexual Symmetry: Love in the Ancient Novel and Related Genres, Princeton: Princeton University Press. Lefèvre, E. (2003), ‘Plinius’ Klage um die verlorengegangene Würde des Senats (3, 20; 4, 25)’, in Castagna, L.and Lefèvre, E. (eds), Plinius der Jüngere und Seine Zeit, München and Leipzig: K. G. Saur, pp. 189–200. Lilja, S. (1969), ‘On the nature of Pliny’s letters’, Arctos, 6, 61–79. Ludolph, M. (1997), Epistolographie und Selbstdarstellung: Untersuchungen zu den ‘Paradenbriefen’ Plinius des Jüngeren, Tübingen: Gunter Narr Verlag. Marchesi, I. (2008), The Art of Pliny’s Letters: A Poetics of Allusion in the Private Correspondence, Cambridge and New York: Cambridge University Press. Morello, R. (2007), ‘Confidence, invidia, and Pliny’s epistolary curriculum’,



P liny the N ephew

21

in Morello, R. and Morrison, A. D. (eds), Ancient Letters. Classical and Late Antique Epistolography, Oxford: Oxford University Press, pp. 169–189. Morello, R. and Gibson, R. K. (eds) (2003), ‘Re-Imagining Pliny the Younger’, Arethusa Special Issue, 36. Noguerol, E. (2003), ‘Le traitement des figures du père et de la mère dans le livre VI de la Correspondance de Pline le Jeune’, Vita Latina, 168, 82–93. Parker, H. N. (1998), ‘Loyal slaves and loyal wives: the crisis of the outsiderwithin and Roman exemplum literature’, in Joshel, S. R. and Murnaghan, S. (eds), Women and Slaves in Greco-Roman Culture: Differential Equations, London and New York: Routledge, pp. 152–173. Raditsa, L. F. (1980), ‘Augustus’ legislation concerning marriage, procreation, love affairs and adultery’, ANRW, 2, (13), pp. 278–339. Rawson, B. (2003), Children and Childhood in Roman Italy, Oxford: Oxford University Press. Saller, R. P. (1986), ‘Patria potestas and the stereotype of the Roman family’, Continuity and Change, 1, 7–2. —(1987), ‘Men’s age at marriage and its consequences in the Roman family’, CP, 82, 21–34. —(1988), ‘Pietas, obligation and authority in the Roman family’, in Kneissl, P. and Losemann, V. (eds), Alte Geschichte und Wissenschaftsgeschichte: Festschrift für Karl Christ zum 65. Geburtstag, Darmstadt: Wissenschaftliche Buchgesellschaft, pp. 393–410. —(1994), Patriarchy, Property and Death in the Roman Family, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. —(1997), ‘Roman kinship: structure and sentiment’, in Rawson, B. and Weaver, P. (eds), The Roman Family in Italy: Status, Sentiment, Space, Oxford: Clarendon Press, pp. 7–34. Scheidel, W. (2009), ‘The demographic background’, in Huebner, S. R. and Ratzan, D. M. (eds), Growing Up Fatherless in Antiquity, Cambridge and New York: Cambridge University Press, pp. 31–40. Sherwin-White, A. N. (1966), The Letters of Pliny: A Historical and Social Commentary, Oxford: Clarendon Press. Skinner M. B. (1983), ‘The last encounter of Dido and Aeneas: Aen. 6.450–476’, Vergilius, 29, 12–18. —(1993), ‘Ego mulier: the construction of male sexuality in Catullus’, Helios, 20, (2), 107–130; (1997) revised and shortened version, in Hallett, J. P. and Skinner, M. B. (eds), Roman Sexualities, Princeton: Princeton University Press, pp. 129–150. —(1997), ‘Introduction: Quod multo fit aliter in Graecia’, in Hallett, J. P. and Skinner, M. B. (eds), Roman Sexualities, Princeton: Princeton University Press, pp. 3–25. —(2005), Sexuality in Greek and Roman Culture, Oxford: Blackwell. Stafford, E. J. (1998), ‘Masculine values, feminine forms: on the gender of

22

Families in the R oman and L ate A ntiq u e R oman Wo rld

personified abstractions’, in Foxhall, L. and Salmon, J. (eds), Thinking Men: Masculinity and its Self-Representation in the Classical Tradition, London and New York: Routledge, pp. 43–56. Treggiari, S. (1991a), Roman Marriage: Iusti Coniuges from the Time of Cicero to the Time of Ulpian, Oxford: Oxford University Press. —(1991b), ‘Divorce Roman style: how easy and how frequent was it?’, in Rawson, B. (ed.), Marriage, Divorce, and Children in Ancient Rome, Oxford: Clarendon Press, pp. 31–46. Trisoglio, F. (1972), La Personalità di Plinio il Giovane nei suoi Rapporti con la Politica, la Società e la Letteratura, Turin: Accademia delle Scienze. Varner, E. R. (2008), ‘Transcending gender: assimilation, identity, and Roman Imperial portraits’, in Bell, S. and Hansen, I. L. (eds), Role Models in the Roman World: Identity and Assimilation. Memoirs of the American Academy in Rome. Supplementary Volume 7, Ann Arbor: The University of Michigan Press, for the American Academy in Rome, pp. 185–205. Vigorita, T. S. (2002, 2nd revised edn; 1998, 1st edn), Casta domus: un seminario sulla legislazione matrimoniale augustea, Naples: Jovene Editore. Walters, J. (1997), ‘Invading the Roman body: manliness and impenetrability in Roman thought’, in Hallett, J. P. and Skinner, M. B. (eds), Roman Sexualities, Princeton: Princeton University Press, pp. 29–43. Wyke, M. (1995), ‘Taking the woman’s part: engendering Roman love elegy’, in Boyle, A. J. (ed.), Roman Literature and Ideology: Ramus Essays for J. P. Sullivan, Bendigo: Aureal Publications, pp. 110–128. Zeitlin, F. I. (1985), ‘Playing the other: theater, theatricality, and the feminine in Greek Drama’, Representations, 11, 63–94; (1990) revised version, in Winkler, J. J. and Zeitlin, F. I. (eds), Nothing to Do with Dionysos? Athenian Drama in its Social Context, Princeton: Princeton University Press, pp. 63–96; (1996), Playing the Other: Gender and Society in Classical Greek Literature, Chicago: University of Chicago Press, pp. 341–374. —(1996), Playing the Other: Gender and Society in Classical Greek Literature, Chicago: University of Chicago Press.

3

‘Vixit Plus Minus’. Commemorating the Age of the Dead: Towards A Familial Roman Life Course? Ray Laurence and Francesco Trifilò Chronological age on Roman tombstones is often accompanied by epigraphic formulae which provide further information regarding a person’s age. Among these formulae is the striking expression ‘plus minus’ which indicates the age of the dedicatee being known only approximately by the dedicator(s) of the tombstone. The expression plus minus provides an opportunity of applying a filter from antiquity to the investigation of recorded age at death in epitaphs. This paper explores three issues related to this expression: age groups associated with age-approximation, differences regarding the use of plus minus in relation to gender and, finally considers the consequent implications for the study of the Roman family. By undertaking this analysis, we aim to explore the use of approximation of age at the point of commemoration (the usage of the ‘plus minus’ formula) with a view to revealing patterns across the stages of life in the Roman Empire.1 As Sabine Huebner has shown, epigraphy occupies a middle ground between the intimacy of the household and the objectivity of the census.2 The epitaph, we may assume, that mentions age at death was a statement about a person made by others, who decided to include his/her age. It is also a statement that shifts from the personal world of knowledge to the public world of commemorative norms, because the inscription was a public object. In this paper we report overall patterns of commemorative practice associated with the recording of age. This produces an overview of predominance of commemorative practice, in which certain ages are more frequently mentioned than others. Their consideration as evidence for a varied significance of age across the human life span, allows us to reconstruct the outline of a life course based on epigraphy which is quite distinct from that found in literary texts produced by the elite. This has, instead, a significant convergence with age stages found in Roman law. It would take a leap of faith to suggest that age in epitaphs is something we should associate with familial or household knowledge, but it is worth considering this association because earlier studies have suggested that the epitaph was shaped by the composition of the family as well as the cultural practices of commemoration loosely described as the epigraphic habit.3 Hence, we may suggest that what follows contributes to a Roman life course that reflected cultural practices associated with the use of age that stemmed from the household and, with fair probability, from families and substitute

24

Families in the R oman and L ate A ntiq u e R oman Wo rld

organizations associated with the formation of identity in childhood and the stabilization of identity in adulthood.

Plus Minus The expression plus minus, meaning quite literally ‘more or less’, is commonly viewed as indicating a condition of relative approximation in the indication of one piece of information. In epigraphy this expression is found mainly in two contexts: one concerning practical instances of approximate measurement of location in space (often in the context of the prescribed location of a monument such as a tomb) and the other in the indication of the age of the deceased in terms of time. It should perhaps also be noted that the expression is also used in connection with the approximate age of slaves at point of sale.4 The usage in the context of funerary epigraphy is also known to belong principally to the period from the third century AD and is said to have flourished in the sixth century AD.5 Because of its greater popularity in Late Antiquity, some have suggested its closer connection to Christian thought and the related insignificance of age at death, but such a view is difficult to sustain given the greater precision over the recording of death in Christian epitaphs and would need to assume a decline in the importance of knowledge of the time of birth.6 The plus minus expression has been widely used to support statements concerning the idea of inaccurate knowledge of the age at death.7 However, such observations do not address the obvious question: why would an age at death be included in an epitaph and why should it be stated as an approximate age? If the exact age of the person was unknown, why was it so necessary to guess and then say that the age was approximate? The value of the expression ‘plus minus’, when indicating the age of a deceased person, is different from other instances in which this epigraphic formula is used (such as inscriptions associated with approximate location in space), because the inclusion of the age of the dead individual has been long recognized as ‘a product of Roman social customs’,8 rather than an objective statement. As a result, we should not view the commemoration of the age at death as a form of data for the reconstruction of demographic structure of the Roman population. This causes us to see the use of chronological age as having, instead, a cultural value that informs us about the use of age in antiquity and the values attributed to certain key ages that are more frequently commemorated. This factor, in turn, implies a value in the epitaphs that include age as an indicator of the value of age in life rather than at death. The plus minus formula as an indicator of approximation provides additional information of a lack of knowledge of a person’s age at death. Hence, we wish to understand if deliberately denoted approximate age in epitaphs is associated with people of different ages and/or gender when compared to epitaphs without a designated degree of approximation. More specifically, as the indication of age at death is a reflection



‘ V ixit P lu s M in u s’. C ommem o rating the Age o f the D ead

25

of social custom, we may expect to find that an age given in an inscription with the plus minus attribute reflects more closely key ages in the Roman life course – for the reason that the act of approximation leads the commemorator into the realm of cultural assumptions about the deceased, rather than making a report of details associated with a specific life. Thus, because approximate knowledge of that age would allow for greater liberty, and therefore presumably for the described age of the deceased to be aligned closely to numbers that would have been recognized as of value both in Empire-wide and regional contexts, the expression ‘plus minus’ becomes a tool to better understand key ages of the life course in the Latin west.9

The inscriptions and Macro-Level Analysis A total of 2,504 inscriptions were identified as using the expression ‘plus minus’ – 700 of these have a missing or fragmentary indication of age. By subtracting missing or fragmentary indications of age there are 1,790 inscriptions in this study that mention the words plus minus and a legible age at death.10 These inscriptions constitute a body of evidence sufficient for an in-depth comparison between it and all epitaphs in our collection (drawn from Italy, excluding Rome, and a number of provinces), which have a legible indication of chronological age – 23,227.11 The ages given, in this much larger group of inscriptions, range from one year right across the human life span and even beyond it to 160 years. The plus minus group of inscriptions, extracted from the known inscriptions mentioning age-at-death (including Rome) which numbers 42,124, amounts to 6  per cent of the total sample. This in itself is significant and points to an absence of accuracy in terms of knowledge of at least 6 per cent of the population’s age at death. We should rather say, here, at least 6 per cent, because many epitaphs make no mention of chronological age and we might assume that where no mention of age is made, it was certainly not important enough to be included and may not have been known. For those inscriptions, which included age at death and plus minus, there was an importance attached to its inclusion, even if that was known to be inaccurate.12 Overall, the range of ages contained in the inscriptions that include the formula plus minus is rather lower than that found in the larger group in our study with proportionally fewer individuals included over the age of 80 years. It should be stated that this study is undertaken with full awareness of the fact that comparability of the two samples may be affected by differences in regional representation; the plus minus group of inscriptions covers a range of places and regions from the Latin speaking (at least in terms of epigraphy) part of the Empire, including Rome. The main group of inscriptions referring to age at death, in contrast, is limited to a sample of provinces and excludes the city of Rome. We do not believe that this lack of uniformity affects the overall validity of the study. This stems mainly from the evidence, which appears to

26

Families in the R oman and L ate A ntiq u e R oman Wo rld

confirm comparability, as data analysis has shown no particular contradiction or diversity in the data-patterns associated with the commemoration of age that may be explained with the non-representativeness of the choice of these two large samples of funerary inscriptions (Figure 3.1). To enable comparison of the patterns associated with males and females in the two groups of inscriptions under study, it was seen as necessary to reduce the distraction that more males than females were commemorated and to allow for direct comparison of patterns of age commemoration. To do this, the commemorative patterns are expressed as a percentage of male or female commemoration in both the plus minus group and in that of the larger group. This allows for comparison of commemorative patterns associated with age by gender and between the two groups of inscriptions (Figure 3.2). Here, the two sets of data possess a strong analytical potential. Finally, it is worth noting that the relative numbers of commemorated men and women also appears to be consistent across the two samples. Overall, epitaphs containing a known age at death expressed in years are 23,223 for chronological age. Of these, 58 per cent are male (13,463), and 39 per cent female (9,134). The remaining 3  per cent (654 epitaphs) was left undetermined. By comparison, in the ‘plus minus’ sample the total number of 2,504 epitaphs is subdivided in 44  per cent (1,010) males, 29  per cent (734) females, and a larger 27  per cent (670) of unknown gender. The meaning of the discrepancy in the representation of non-gendered epitaphs between samples is almost certainly linked to the fact that the plus minus group of inscriptions is considerably smaller than the other group of inscriptions which simply mention chronological age. However, as a

Figure 3.1  Comparison by quantity of the total and plus minus samples



‘ V ixit P lu s M in u s’. C ommem o rating the Age o f the D ead

27

Figure 3.2 Comparison by percentage of total and plus minus datasets (percentage values in all calculations and charts are rounded to the nearest whole number)

general statement, it is important to underline that these patterns conform to those found in similar quantitative approaches to this kind of material.13 Before discussing the analysis of the two groups of inscriptions, we should add a note on the research value of the representation of chronological age on Roman epitaphs. This information was for a long time used as evidence for demographic studies of the ancient world, and to this end has always indicated difficulties linked to represented age-groups. In particular the variations in the relative representation of children and the elderly, does not reflect other groups of inscriptions associated with the discussion of age and mortality. Children, for example, are poorly represented despite the very high child mortality rate that we can assume to be associated with antiquity and other pre-twentieth century societies. The use of inscriptions has therefore increasingly been recognized as not an indicator of demography but as having a value as evidence for age-related cultural values that reflect, in particular, ages associated with greater symbolic capital in specific cultural settings.14 Approaching the study of age commemoration in this way allows us to gain a precious insight into the world of the living, as well as the dead.

Plus minus and the Stages of Life Studies of the Roman life course based on a reading of literary and legal texts, with some reference to inscriptions, point towards the establishment of a series of chronological ages that can be mapped onto ancient thinking about the social

28

Families in the R oman and L ate A ntiq u e R oman Wo rld

biology of the human life span.15 These points in the life course are associated with changes that map onto ancient age systems that involved the relationship of phases in the life span: boyhood, youth, adulthood, old age and very old age, to mathematical theory based on division of the human life span into a varying number of phases: three, four, five, and seven,16 including the ages at first marriage of young men and girls derived from the study of familial commemoration in inscriptions.17 However, within these age schemes, we do find a series of key ages repeated (Table 3.1). Male

Female

3 (earliest age at burial)

3 (earliest age at burial)

5 (starting point for labour and small tasks) 7 (crucial survival threshold) boys become pueri

7 (crucial survival threshold) Minimum age of betrothal, girls become virgines

14 (minimum legal age of marriage)

12 (minimum legal age of marriage)

14–16 (toga virilis; end of childhood) 14 also dangerous year of puberty (crucial survival threshold)

15–19 (age of marriage estimate) 14 also dangerous year of puberty (crucial survival threshold)

18 (start of military service) 19 (Military tribunate)

20 (Augustan Marriage Laws – expectation of marriage begins)

25 (eligible to begin a political career in Empire) and a minor is liberated from ‘tutela’; Augustan Marriage Laws – expectation of marriage begins) 25–29 (age of marriage) 30 (Office holding would begin in Republic) 42 (Period of office holding in Republic culminates in consulship) 46 (Men in the army are called seniores)

50 (Augustan Marriage Laws – expectation of marriage ends)

60 (Men are not required to serve in the army. Augustan Marriage Laws – expectation of marriage ends) Table 3.1 Key ages found in literary texts18

The ages set out in Table 3.1 point to a structural importance of age in early life that can be associated with adult views of child and young adult



‘ V ixit P lu s M in u s’. C ommem o rating the Age o f the D ead

29

development. There is differentiation in the patterns of legal marriage in terms of biological gender, and male adulthood can be divided up with respect to the cursus honorum of politics (note the different versions of the Empire and the Republic). The appearance of these ages in literary and legal texts points to their importance as being ages at which a person may have greater symbolic capital in terms of their capacity: to be married; to hold office and later in life their incapacity: to bear children or to be married. Yet, it has to be borne in mind that the minimum legal age to marry, for example, need not point to the cultural norm for the age at first marriage. Equally, ages of transition to adulthood and the transition from wearing a toga praetexta to wearing a new toga virilis was subject to the judgement of a paterfamilias who would assess the maturity of his son or child under his guardianship (Caligula’s transition to adulthood was delayed until 19).19 These might be described as the key minimum ages for events of social transition in the life course that altered a person’s identity. We might expect such key ages of family members or those most easily described as having family bonds to result in a greater commemoration of persons associated with the key ages of transition found in literary texts and, perhaps also, a greater commemoration of children and young adults. With a view to testing these expectations, we looked at deviation from an even distribution of ages across the range from 1 year to 95 years. An even pattern would have resulted in each age being represented by a little over 1 per cent. This was not the case and, instead, we see in Figure 3.3 a graph that shows the concentration of the commemoration of age at death ranging from figures of 2 to just under 5  per cent in the all inscriptions that mentioned age, with four ages associated with levels of concentration higher than 2 per cent: 25, 30, 45 and 60. However, when looking for similar patterns of concentration in the inscriptions that include plus minus, we find that the number of ages associated with concentrations in commemoration above 2 per cent and a greater divergence of gender with female peaks of over 2 per cent at: 3, 16, 25, 30 and 60; with levels of concentration on the age of 30 representing over 13 per cent of the females commemorated by age with plus minus. In contrast male peaks over 2 per cent occur at: 10, 25, 30, 45 and 60. Perhaps not surprisingly, stated inaccuracy of age causes greater concentration on key ages owing to the age being stated as an approximation, and its gender divergence becomes more pronounced since the stated age depended on information from the observation of a person of an unstated age and the deduction of their age from their appearance, biological stage of being, or a guesstimate of their age based on partial information. Such observations, when compared to stated age without a statement of approximation (plus minus) would appear to be filtered through a lens of gendered dichotomy and, hence, the greater variation by gender and by overall concentration on some ages provides a greater value to the pattern observed in the commemoration of plus minus and a chronological age. This would suggest greater cultural value was embedded in the expression of approximate age than in ‘accurate’ chronological age.

30

Families in the R oman and L ate A ntiq u e R oman Wo rld

Relating Epigraphic Age to the Literary Life Course As we have seen, by making a comparison of the two types of commemoration of age (with/without plus minus) in relation to the gender of the deceased it is possible to extract variations in the number of epitaphs displaying distinct ages. These need now to be discussed in more detail with respect to the differentiated commemoration of key chronological ages found in the life course determined from literary and legal texts (which is listed in Table 3.1 above). The way our dataset reflects key ages in the literary life course is plotted below (Figure 3.3).

Figure 3.3  Representation of chronological age without a mention of plus minus (n.: 23,227). Key indicator defined as ages with a value of 2 per cent or greater

The variation in the rates of commemoration in relationship to age in Figure 3.3 shows significant peaks at the ages of 25, 30, 45, and 60 for both males and females. Gender peaks are differentiated according to wider age groups. Women are more strongly represented at the age of 25, 30, and (less so) 45, while men are more strongly represented at the age of 60. For all other key ages there is little to indicate a pattern that deviates from the expectation of an even distribution with all ages being as important or unimportant as any other, (i.e. each individual age having about 1 per cent value each year). A striking observation is that variation by gender is very marginal in all of these key ages and right across the overall patterns of commemoration in both groups of inscriptions. The age of 42 was included as a key age since traditionally this age was associated with the earliest age of the consulship in the republican constitution.



‘ V ixit P lu s M in u s’. C ommem o rating the Age o f the D ead

31

Our study demonstrates that this age, while significant in the mos maiorum of republican politics, had no lasting or even wider significance, when looking at inscriptions that for the most part would date from the second century AD onwards. However, we see a lower than average representation of this age with a convergence of male and female patterns of commemoration. This factor alerts us to the need to pay close attention to the absence of representation of certain ages within the epitaphs (see below). The larger group of inscriptions that commemorate age at death displays, therefore, a major emphasis on key ages that are known to have significance for males, rather than females, in current studies on the Roman life course. The significance of these peaks should take into account distortions derived from the phenomenon of age-rounding but show a clear link with ages of transition in Roman law. The age of 25 signals the liberation of a minor from ‘tutela’ (need to have a tutor), the age of 45, becoming a senior among the military, and the age of 60, when a man was no longer required to serve in the army.20 Ages associated with elite office holding appear to be comparatively under represented – pointing to the artificiality of the elite’s age controlled cursus honorum (or order in which magistracies should be held). Equally, all those ages divisible by the number seven (also the number of planets visible in antiquity), that are prominent in the ancient systems for the division of the stages of life derived from Hippocratic medical thinking, tend not to skew the representation of age at death.21 However, the comparison of data from the male group (Figure 3.3)

Figure 3.4  Percentage representation of key ages in the ‘plus minus’ dataset (n.: 1790). On comparison with all represented ages a value of 1  per cent is to be considered average. Significant peaks start from a value of 2 per cent

32

Families in the R oman and L ate A ntiq u e R oman Wo rld

to that found in the female one, suggests three ways in which this pattern may be reviewed. First, age-rounding may have a stronger effect on the sample as whole. Second, this pattern may reflect the practice of epitaph dedication in the context of nuclear-family culture, (i.e. there is a greater tendency for husbands and wives to dedicate epitaphs commemorating age to their spouses).22 Third, this result derives from a mixture of demographic tendencies, and laws or practices regarding the commemoration of young and very young individuals. In Figure 3.4 plotting the inscriptions that include both age and ‘plus minus’, values appear to be distributed somewhat differently from that found for the larger group of inscriptions that mention age without this epigraphic formula (Figure 3.3), but both groups of inscriptions share points in common. What we see is that in those inscriptions that include plus minus, there are more extreme peaks, or concentrations of commemoration, associated with key epigraphic ages (reaching up to 14 per cent of the sample as opposed to the 4.5 per cent of the total sample). While peaks, or concentrations in commemoration, at the ages of 25, 30, 45, and 60 are confirmed, there are also additional significant commemoration of the dead at the ages of three, 10, 14 to 16, and 25 to 29. Again, gender differentiation is strong: the peaks over at the age of 3, 14 to 16, and 25 to 29 are associated with females to a far greater extent than in males. Evidence for the plus minus dataset’s reflection of the importance of crucial life stages is most notable in two instances: that of the age of 30 (for both genders but especially for females) and that of the age of three (for females). While the peak in commemoration at the age of 30 reflects a similar trend in the larger group of inscriptions (Figures 3.3 and 3.4), this has been noted in other analyses of life stages of Roman women but is yet to find a secure interpretation as a key cultural stage in the female Roman life course.23 Importantly, in our study we have established a convergence between the age of 30 as significant in both the female and male life course with the proviso that the emphasis would seem to be greater in female commemoration of the age of 30. The more frequent occurrence of the age of three in the female sample (the male sample’s peak at this age is smaller) is understudied, but appears to be connected to the formal mourning of a child’s death, which was prohibited for children who had died under the age of three (see Figures 3.3 and 3.4).24 This interpretation of the peaks in frequency of ages commemorated points to the age of three having an importance in the Roman life-course that needs further investigation. Other groups that are associated with higher than average commemoration include the age of 25, which also has a stronger emphasis in female commemoration (as does in the larger sample – Figure 3.3), as well as the ages of 1025 and 45 (Figure 3.4). The higher rate of commemoration of the age of 10 in inscriptions that include the formula plus minus is in marked contrast to the evidence from the larger group of inscriptions, in which the commemoration of the age of 10 can be seen as average (Figures 3.3 and 3.4). The age of 45 also needs to be commented upon. There is a marked difference in gender representation, as the slightly greater presence of female in the total sample (Figure



‘ V ixit P lu s M in u s’. C ommem o rating the Age o f the D ead

33

3.3) is opposed by a more noticeable majority observable in the plus minus group (Figure 3.4). In both samples the peak is more emphatic in the male sample (Figures 3.3 and 3.4), which is consistent with the pattern expected from legal texts – but it is significant that there is a concentration of female commemoration at this age.

The Distribution of Ages Commemorated So far in our discussion we have looked at above average (over 2 per cent for each year or age) commemoration of certain ages. We wish to turn now to under-representation. As said above, theoretically, an even distribution of ages should produce a distribution of 1 per cent for each age of the lifespan. Hence, values less than 0.5 per cent represent low levels of commemoration. These lower levels of commemoration tend to be associated with ages that precede ages of higher than average commemoration (such as 34) in other words those ages that come before points of age rounding associated with ages ending in 5 and 10 or V and X (for example 34). What these lower levels of commemoration provide us with are a means to assess the level of age representation within a wider period of the life course – studied here within 15-year age brackets. The focus of our analysis is on the number of ages utilized and under-utilized within a 15-year period. To assess this, we can count within each 15-year period the number of ages that are associated with a level of representation below 0.5 per cent. With an even pattern of distribution, we should find that no ages are under-represented. In a pattern associated with a high degree of age rounding across a 15-year period of the life span, we would see the 12 ages not ending in V or X to have levels of representation below 0.5 per cent. This can be represented graphically and provides us with a means to discuss non-distributed patterns of the representation of age in epitaphs (given in Figure 3.5). The overall distribution points to a usage of a wide variety of ages when children and younger adults were commemorated. It is notable that female commemoration, regardless of the use of plus minus, uses a full distribution of ages in early adulthood. This is not replicated in the male pattern of commemoration, where we find the age of 29 at a lower level and also in the case of plus minus the age of 24. This might be explained as a product of simple age rounding that is not as present from the female pattern of commemoration within the age parameters 3 to 33. A different pattern emerges after the age of 30: the use of approximate age (plus minus) features a more frequent use of different ages than found in the simple commemoration of chronological age (without plus minus). After the age of 45, we find that the number of ages utilized decreases but the distribution of ages used is more compressed when we look at the commemoration of approximate age (plus minus).

34

Families in the R oman and L ate A ntiq u e R oman Wo rld

Figure 3.5  Measure of the distribution of commemorative age – a 0 value represents the full usage of all ages; whereas a value of 12 represents a minimal usage of ages apart from those ending in 0 and 5

There would appear to be a transition in the usage of ages in the 30 to 45 year old age bracket. Looking back at the actual distribution, we found that the age of 40 would appear to have been the point of transition. However, we could also identify a marked gender variation in the use of age under the age of 40 with respect to the distribution of ages used and not used in commemoration of the dead. Under the age of 40, we find a strong gendered division in the distribution of ages commemorated. For females under 40, the only ages not commemorated in both the overall pattern of age commemoration and that associated with plus minus are 34 and 39 (and 1- and 2-year-old children, of course). In contrast under the age of 40, absent male ages associated with plus minus are: 1, 2, 7, 8, 13, 21, 24, 29, 36, 37 and 39 (for male age without plus minus, we find the following ages under 40 not commemorated: 2, 29, 34, 38, and 39). Over the age of 40, the role of age rounding is more pronounced – which causes the number of ages commemorated to reduce as more and more ages are not utilized in favour of ages ending in V or X (5 or 10), which is more pronounced in the use of age in association with plus minus. Hence, what we see in the overall pattern of usage of age is that, in the context of age rounding occurring, this is far more pronounced after the age of 35 than it is in early adulthood and, we can suggest, that it may be less pronounced in the commemoration of females than in males. This is particularly true of female commemoration in association with plus minus, when compared to



‘ V ixit P lu s M in u s’. C ommem o rating the Age o f the D ead

35

the equivalent male pattern of age commemoration with plus minus. What we find in the final period of the life course is that the gendered distinction in commemorative pattern ceases to exist as males and females were commemorated with a high degree of inaccuracy associated with age rounding. This brief study of the distribution of ages commemorated has revealed that gender played a part in ensuring that young adult females were more accurately commemorated than any other age-group. This was closely paralleled by the precise commemoration of males under 30, but was not paralleled by a similar distribution when males were commemorated with an inaccurate or plus minus age. This runs contrary to our expectations that would have suggested a greater degree of inaccuracy in the specification of female ages. Instead, it implies that those females commemorated were valued and their age was measured with a greater degree of accuracy by family members and other closely-related commemorators.

Life Stages: Gender and Age The gendered variation in the distribution of ages used in commemorative epigraphy discussed above needs further investigation with reference to the overall patterns of commemoration with respect to age and gender. We will use the following age ranges with a view to determining the overall patterns of commemoration across the life course: • Child: 0–15 • Young: 16–30 • Adult: 31–60 • Old: 61–80 • Very Old: 81+26 Through comparison with this set of key ages and age groups we outline a series of emerging similarities and differences and verify the emergence of patterns and points of age commemoration which will be used to address three key questions: 1. Given that collected inscriptions offer evidence for stated inaccuracy of chronological age, can we find concentrations on particular age groups (child, young, adult, old)? 2. Is there greater or lesser representation of males as opposed to females? 3. Can the patterns of age representation be related to stages in the life course? In presenting this information derived from two large groups of epitaphs, we will also outline further analyses to be conducted in order to verify and consolidate its effective contribution.

36

Families in the R oman and L ate A ntiq u e R oman Wo rld

The subdivision of the two groups of inscriptions into the broader stages of life has produced similar patterns in data distribution, but with a few dissimilarities. In the larger group of inscriptions that mention age (without the phrase plus minus) from Italy and the provinces (Figure 3.6) we observe an overall peak in the ‘adult’ group (31 per cent) which represents the culmination of a gradual increase starting from a 16 per cent presence in the ‘child’ group, which increases to 24  per cent in the ‘young’ group. The ‘old’ and ‘very old’ groups show gradual decreases in percentage representation, constituting 18 per cent and 10 per cent of the overall sample respectively. Gender differentiation shows overall parity in the ‘child’ group and in the ‘very old’ group. In the ‘adult’ and ‘old’ groups females are less represented than males, although this differentiation is by approximately 1 per cent in the adult group and increases to around 3  per cent in the ‘old’ group. In the ‘young’ group there is instead a marked majority of the female group with a difference of around 5 per cent.

Figure 3.6 Total sample (i.e. no mention of plus minus) subdivided by age groups. Quantities are expressed as percentages of the inscriptions by gender

In the plus minus group of inscriptions from Rome and elsewhere (Figure 3.7), overall patterns are similar, although there are significant differences. First, and as observed in the analysis of ‘key ages’, the same broad pattern is more extreme in the plus minus sample. Here the gradual increase and decrease in the percentage representation of age groups culminating in the ‘adult’ group, is distinguished by a stronger differentiation between groups. This stronger differentiation, however, affects more the ‘old’ and ‘very old’ groups, while the ‘child’ group remains similar, and the ‘young’ and ‘adult’ groups increase their presence by an average figure of 10  per cent. Gender does not seem to



‘ V ixit P lu s M in u s’. C ommem o rating the Age o f the D ead

37

differentiate the patterns of representation, with less females being represented in the ‘adult’ and ‘old’ groups and a higher presence of females in the ‘young’ group. As before, this differentiation between male and female is more marked in the plus minus sample. In the ‘very old’ group, the slight majority of males in the larger group is opposed to a slight majority of females in the plus minus group of inscriptions. The same opposition is more marked in the ‘very young’, in which the slight majority of males present in the larger group of inscriptions is opposed by a majority of females in the plus minus epitaphs which amounts to around 2.5 per cent.

Figure 3.7  Plus minus sample by age groups. Quantities are expressed as percentages of each gender within the group of inscriptions

Overall, both groups of inscriptions (Figures 3.6 and 3.7) show a distribution in which the very young and very old are less represented, and in which the young and adult share over 50 per cent of the total. While broad patterning is shared by the two samples, the plus minus epitaphs appear to show an emphatic tendency which suggests (if we accept the indication of age as an effective approximation) a greater interest in the representation of the young and adults, mainly at the expense of representing the old and very old. Furthermore, there would appear to be a trend towards the greater commemoration of young females rather than males which is reversed in the later stages of life.

Conclusion This paper has involved a detailed investigation of how age is commemorated using statements that are explicitly approximate (plus minus) and those that assume a specific chronological year of the life span. We have found that the

38

Families in the R oman and L ate A ntiq u e R oman Wo rld

patterns of commemoration of age of the deceased are skewed to some degree towards certain key ages found within the legal texts. The patterns of commemoration do not map onto the transition points marked by chronological age established by Varro, Censorinus, Ptolemy and Isidore with exception to those associated with numbers ending in the Roman numeral X.27 Gender does cause an overall bias in the number of males commemorated compared with the number of females. However, there is no similar pattern of gender differentiation found in the actual ages commemorated. If anything, there is evidence showing greater care in the commemoration of female children and young adults. More generally, the analysis of these large numbers of epitaphs shows that there is a change in the pattern of commemoration of those in the period of life between 35 and 45. This may be related to the increased likelihood that the parents of the person commemorated were not alive, a factor that has been calculated by Richard Saller in his demographic simulation of the Roman family.28 What we are seeing in the overall use of age in the commemoration of young adults and children with a greater degree of accuracy is an indication of the presence of parents and perhaps uncles and aunts, who might know the age of the deceased with greater accuracy.29 The absence of a gendered pattern of commemoration points to the fact that male and female children were valued as highly as each other in the Roman family (contrary to the evidence of literary texts). Indeed, if anything, the way female children and young adults appear in our dataset would seem to make these gendered age groups more highly valued. There is also an implication that age matters more when the deceased was younger, whereas there was greater approximation of age through age rounding in older adults. The use of plus minus as a formula associated with age shows a similar pattern of commemoration of the dead to that of epitaphs with a specific age. The peaks associated with the bar charts showing patterns of commemoration point to a greater association of plus minus with key ages that can be defined as having a greater symbolic value. However, we should not see the use of this formula as an indication that the commemorator had little clue of the age of the deceased. The use of age would seem to use a similar range of ages as found in other inscriptions that feature age at death.

Notes 1 2 3 4

5

Harlow and Laurence, 2002 and Parkin, 2010 for discussion of stages of life. Huebner, 2011. Saller and Shaw, 1984; Saller, 1987; Shaw, 1987; and Martin, 1996. Examples of the former are: AE 1994, 01093; AE 1980, 00105; CIL 01, 02500; CIL 03, 0936 (concerning the sale of slaves); CIL 05, 06196; CIL 06, 01585a; CIL 06, 09681, CIL 06, 13074; CIL 06, 17992; CIL 06, 21020, CIL 06, 29961; CIL 06, 30573; CIL 08, 27333; CIL 09, 0358; CIL 11, 03932; CIL 11, 07918; CIL 14, 02772; CIL 14, 03342; CIL 14, 03343; ILGR 00152; INSDELOS 01511; OBUNJEM 00147; RIB 00292; SUP IT-02-V, 00025; SUP IT-13-n, 00018; TP SULP 00051; TP SULP, 00055; TP SULP, 00106 Calabi Limentani, 1991.



‘ V ixit P lu s M in u s’. C ommem o rating the Age o f the D ead

39

6

Salway, 1993, p. 515; a view countered by a perusal of the work of Shaw, 1996, and the epitaphs underpinning that work. 7 Degrassi, 1964, p. 82. 8 King, 2000, p. 126. But see her analysis in all the preceding section and enclosed bibliography (pp. 123–126). 9 The value has also a role to play in understanding age-rounding. This particular aspect will be explored in a separate publication. 10 It should be noted that only collectively does this class of evidence amount to and surpass the minimum of one thousand inscriptions Duncan Jones (1977) believes necessary for statistical analysis capable of providing good interpretative grounds. 11 The dataset contains epitaphs from Africa Proconsularis, the Mauretaniae, Hispania Tarraconensis, Gallia Narbonensis, Lusitania, Aquitania, Dacia, Moesia and all of Italia with the exception of Rome. 12 It should be noted that neither sample includes epitaphs from the City of Rome, since the project on the use of chronological age seeks to identify regional patterns that in the context of migration to Rome are likely to offer a skewed picture. 13 For Rome see Shaw, 1991, p. 69. 14 For a detailed discussion see: Harlow and Laurence, 2002, pp.  6–13. See the divergence of census data from Egypt and epigraphy from Egypt in the study by Huebner, 2011. 15 For the identification of key points in the life course, the following provide an essential guide to the evidence: Revell, 2005, p. 50 (this includes Revell’s ‘guestimates’ concerning female lifecourse); Harlow and Laurence, 2008; and Laes, 2007. 16 Parkin, 2010. 17 Saller and Shaw, 1984; Saller, 1987; and Shaw, 1987. 18 Guidance on the evidence lying behind these key stages found in texts can be found in: Revell, 2005, p.  50 (this includes Revell’s ‘guestimates’ concerning female life-course); Harlow and Laurence, 2008; and Laes, 2007. 19 Suet., Cal., 10–11. 20 It should be noted that the sample choice, although large, has a strong emphasis on territories with comparatively intense military presence. 21 See Parkin, 2010, for stages of life. Also, on the reception of Hippocratic age systems see Harlow and Laurence, 2008. 22 Temporary data suggest that this may indeed be an important factor. 23 Revell, op. cit., pp. 48–49, 52–53. 24 Laes, op. cit., p. 33. 25 About which see also Laes, op. cit., p. 33. 26 Harlow and Laurence, 2008, p. 207. It should be noted that this life course model is temporarily adopted in view of further work being carried out on the primary sources. The comparison of these data with later models such as the one by Isidore of Seville (Parkin, 2010) would imply as full an awareness of the actual chronology of these sources such as has been not yet accomplished. 27 In making these comments, we assume age rounding to the Roman numerals V and X to be a given. 28 Saller, 1994. 29 In due course, the project will undertake a further investigation of age recorded in relation to dedicators specified in inscriptions.

Bibliography Calabi Limentani, I. (1991), Epigrafia Latina, (4th edn), Bologna: Cisalpino. Degrassi, A. (1994), ‘L’indicazione dell’età nelle iscrizioni sepolcrali latine’, in Böhlau, H. (ed.), Akten des IV. Internationalen Kongresses für Griechische und Lateinische Epigraphik, [Wien 17. bis 22. September 1962], Wien.

40

Families in the R oman and L ate A ntiq u e R oman Wo rld

Duncan Jones, R. P. (1977), ‘Age-rounding, illiteracy and social differentiation in the Roman empire’, Chiron, 7. Harlow, M., and Laurence, R. (2002), Growing Up and Growing Old in Ancient Rome, Routledge: London. Harlow, M. and Laurence, R. (2008), ‘The representation of age: towards a life course approach’, in Funari, P. P. A.; Garraffoni, R. S. and Letalien, B., New Perspectives on the Ancient World. Modern Perceptions, Ancient Representations, BAR International Series 1782: Oxford, pp. 205–212. Huebner, S. R. (2011), ‘Household composition in the Ancient Mediterranean – what do we really know?’, in Rawson, B. (ed.), A Companion to Families of the Greek and Roman Worlds, Wiley-Blackwell: Oxford, pp. 73–91. King, M. (2000), ‘Commemoration of infants on Roman funerary inscriptions’, in Oliver, G. J. (ed.), The Epigraphy of Death. Studies in the History and Society of Greece and Rome, Liverpool: Liverpool University Press, pp. 117–54. Laes, C. (2007), ‘Inscriptions from Rome and the history of childhood’, in Harlow, M. and Laurence, R. (eds), Age and Ageing in the Roman Empire, Portsmouth: Journal of Roman Archaeology, pp. 32–33. Martin, D. B. (1996), ‘The construction of the Roman family: Methodological considerations’, JRS, 86, 40–60. Parkin, T. (2010), ‘Life cycle’, in Harlow, M. and Laurence, R. (eds), A Cultural History of Childhood and Family in Antiquity, Oxford, New York: Berg, pp. 97–103. Revell, L. (2005), ‘The Roman life course: A view from the inscriptions’, EJA, 8, (1), 50. Saller, R. P. (1987), ‘Men’s age at marriage and its consequences in the Roman family’, ClPh, 82, 21–34 —(1994), Patriarchy,Property and Death in the Roman Family, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Saller, R. P. and Shaw, B. D. (1984), ‘Tombstones and Roman family relations in the principate: Civilians, soldiers, and slaves’, JRS, 74, 124–156. Salway, P. (1993), A History of Roman Britain, Oxford: Oxford University Press. Shaw, B. D. (1987), ‘The age of Roman girls at marriage: Some reconsiderations’, JRS, 77, 30–46. —(1991), ‘The cultural meaning of death: age and gender in the Roman family’, in Kertzer, D. I. and Saller, R. P. (eds), The Family in Italy from Antiquity to the Present, Yale University Press: New Haven. —(1996), ‘Seasons of Death: Aspects of Mortality in Imperial Rome’, JRS, 86, 100–39.

4

‘No part in earthly things’. The Death, Burial and Commemoration of Newborn Children and Infants in Roman Italy Maureen Carroll Introduction They that complain thus allow that if a young child dies, the survivors ought to bear his loss with equanimity; that if an infant in the cradle dies, they ought not even to utter a complaint. (Cicero, Tusculan Disputations 1.39) The indifference to infanticide morally is paralleled by an indifference to burying children, especially infants, carefully. (Russell, 1985, p. 49)

These two statements concerning infant death and burial in the Roman world, one ancient and one modern, are problematic in various ways. In the first quote, Cicero appears to be telling us that infants were of little importance in Roman society and that their demise was no cause for sorrow, but such philosophical views of an aristocratic male world of self-control can hardly reflect what all Roman men and women thought and felt when their children died. In the second quote, Russell’s comments on Roman Italy suggest a tendency in modern scholarship to accept such literary testimony too literally. He is not alone in interpreting what seems to be an under-representation of infants in Roman cemeteries as an indication that parents invested little effort in burying their babies in the community’s necropolis.1 But without a study of the physical evidence for perinatal children, newborns and nurslings in Italian cemeteries of Roman date, claims of indifference or neglect are unsubstantiated. The material evidence for the death, burial and commemoration of infants is fairly well documented in some regions of the ancient world, for example in Gaul. An examination of Roman sites in France, Switzerland and Germany indicates that very young children often were buried carefully in communal cemeteries with their adult families or in areas reserved for them, but they could also be buried on non-cemetery sites, for example, on farms and in industrial complexes.2 Grave-goods such as toys and food and bodily adornment indicate that considerable care could be taken to provide necessities specific to these vulnerable individuals. Infant death and burial has also been researched in ancient Greece, where children were often members of the burial community, or received some kind of special treatment, or were even given their own

42

Families in the R oman and L ate A ntiq u e R oman Wo rld

necropolis.3 In contrast, excavations in Italian cemeteries have not ‘provided useful or accessible’ material, as Rawson only recently highlighted.4 This, I think, can now be at least partly remedied. I focus here primarily on the mortuary evidence for children under the age of 1 year in Italy from approximately the first century BC to around AD 300.  Child mortality in Roman Italy was very high: the skeletal analysis of the remains from a necropolis at Quarto Cappelle del Prete outside Rome, for example, indicates that almost 60  per cent of children here died before their sixth birthday.5 Modern estimates suggest a mortality rate of between 20–30 per cent and more in the first year of life.6 For this study, data has been gathered from many cemetery sites in Italy in order to ascertain whether children of this tender age were perceived as persons and members of the community. If so, were they also present in the community of the dead? The relationship between archaeology and the information provided by epigraphy, literature and art is also explored to be able to compare public displays of mourning with the actual burial assemblages as indications of private grief and emotional attachment. Finally, other artefacts and rituals related to infant health and well-being are considered. All these types of evidence must be considered if we hope to gain insight into the place of newborn children and infants in Roman society.

Archaeological Sources for Infant Death and Burial: Italian Cemeteries According to Juvenal,7 some children were ‘too young for the funeral pyre’, although he does not specify what age group was excluded from cremation. Pliny the Elder is more specific, writing that ‘children cut their first teeth when 6 months old; it is the universal custom of mankind not to cremate a person who dies before cutting his teeth’.8 It would seem, then, that children under the age of 6 months were consistently inhumed, rather than cremated, but this needs to be checked against the physical evidence in Italy. Thanks to the new excavations by the École Française in the necropolis outside the Porta Nocera at Pompeii, inhumation and cremation burials of infants and children have been explored in the precinct of P.  Vesonius Phileros.9 Young children were inhumed here, including a baby 6 to 9 months of age in an amphora (Figure 4.1) and a 2-year-old child in a tile cist; a child of less than 6 months was cremated. This demonstrates that, at least on this site, the age of 6 months as the point of transition between inhumation and cremation was not particularly strictly observed. At several sites in Roman Gaul (Argenton, Martigny, Fréjus, Chantambre), cremated newborns also have been excavated, so perhaps this ‘universal’ custom of Pliny was not so universal after all.10 Moreover, in the Porta Nocera cemetery at Pompeii, the position of the vertebrae at the base of the skull of the infant in the amphora indicates that the child’s head was perhaps supported on a small cushion.11 Such attention to



‘N o part in earthly things’

43

the dead infant, both protecting it and making it comfortable, is unattested in Roman written sources. At Gubbio (Umbria), in a cemetery dating to the first and second centuries AD, neonates were inhumed in tile cists, amphorae, or wooden coffins throughout the cemetery, occasionally in very close proximity to an adult.12 Grave-goods given to the children include ceramic cups, dishes, glass or ceramic balsamaria, occasionally a coin or an oil lamp or a pierced coin worn as an amulet. At Portorecanati (Marche), in a necropolis of the colony of Potentia, newborn babies or infants under 12 months of age were interred under roof tiles (alla cappucina) or in amphorae.13 The grave-goods included objects such as a terracotta figurine, a feeding bottle, a cup, a lamp or a coin (Figure 4.2). Recent excavations at the vicus of Vagnari (Puglia) have revealed a cemetery in use between the late first and third centuries AD.14 At Vagnari, infants of between 9 and 12 months were buried under and on tiles constructed alla cappucina. Children older than 1 year were buried in a wooden coffin and covered with tiles alla cappucina, suggesting that there was a differentiation in burial rite according to age. Infant burials contained glass and pottery vessels, and one child under 12 months had a blue glass phallic amulet to ward off evil. At Alba (Piemonte), the inclusion of grave goods appears to have been age-related; although protected by stone slabs, infants of 4 and 8 months were not provided with anything, whereas a child 12 months old buried alla cappucina had a small urn at his side.15 In the last decade, several necropoleis of differing sizes in the suburbium of Rome have been intensively explored in advance of the construction of highspeed rail networks and highways.16 Infants under the age of 1 year are found in many of them. At a cluster of necropoleis of the second and third centuries AD on the ancient Via Latina, at Osteria del Curato/Via Lucrezia Romana, excavations have revealed inhumation graves of infants between the ages of newborn and 1 year, all buried together with older children and adults.17 These youngest children usually were buried in tile shelters or amphorae, but they also were found in the niches of built tombs. Occasionally newborns were given gravegoods such as a glass balsamarium, while older children of 4 or 5 months or more were not provided with anything, presumably the affordability of these objects being the determining factor here. In general, common grave offerings for children in Italy include pottery and glass vessels, beads and pendants of various materials, coins and lamps, and occasionally a single iron nail. Those objects relevant to the age of infants are the feeding bottles and necklaces of apotropaic amulets; the other gravegoods deposited with them, however, can also be found in adult burials. Only children older than 1 year were given anything precious such as gold jewellery, indicating perhaps that the value of a child in this age category was greater, owing to the longer investment in its survival.18 A reflection of their value may be seen in a necropolis of the first and second centuries AD on the Via Aldini outside Rome where the richest funerary assemblages were given to children (but not neonates) and women.19

44

Families in the R oman and L ate A ntiq u e R oman Wo rld

Some of the data from Italian cemeteries can now be quantified, although excavation reports sometimes present the data rather coarsely, lumping all children up to the age of 6 or 12 or 13 years together and making it impossible to know how many newborns or nurslings are present.20 Infants less than 1 year old make up only 1.6–2.2 per cent of the burials at Gubbio and Portorecanati, far too low if the cemeteries were reflecting an (estimated) ancient infant mortality of about 30  per cent. At the cemeteries at Osteria del Curato / Via Lucrezia Romana, 5.8 per cent of the burials were those of children under the age of 1.21 In the Via Aldini cemetery, 20 per cent of the population died before the age of 12 years; 8  per cent of the total burials are infants under 1 year of age.22 The proportion of infants this age in the necropolis on the Via Basiliano (Invaso Occidentale), on the ancient Via Collatina in Rome’s suburbium, was considerably higher at 11 per cent.23 On the same road, at a cemetery on the Viale Serenissima, about 12.5 per cent of the 2,200 burials here are of children younger than 1 year; about 30 per cent died by the time they were 6 years old.24 At sites explored thus far in Rome’s suburbium, only at Quadraro is the proportion of infant burials higher at 13.9 per cent.25 In the Isola Sacra cemetery at Portus, about 10 per cent of the burials belong to children of perinatal or neonatal age, at the most 1 year of age; if children up to the age of 2 are included, this increases to 17 per cent.26 In contrast, a much higher proportion of infant burials is in evidence in the first and second centuries AD at Velia (Campania) in the cemetery outside the Porta Marina Sud.27 Here children under the age of 1 comprise 31  per cent of the total assemblage, suggesting that fairly accurate mortality rates are reflected at this site. The Italian data overall in its range is roughly comparable to that from Roman Gaul, where infant burials account for only 3 per cent at St-Paul-TroisChâteaux, just over 8  per cent at Marseilles (Ste. Barbe), around 15  per cent at Kempten (Auf der Keckwiese), and 26  per cent at Argenton (Champ de l’Image).28 Elsewhere, a much higher proportion of infant burials can be seen, particularly in the east necropolis at Sétif in Algeria where children under 1 year of age comprise 39 per cent of all burials.29 There are many variables here that could account for the discrepancies in the number of infants in communal cemeteries in Italy, the reservation of a (not yet excavated) area in the necropolis only for infants and the varying degrees of preservation of infant remains being just two of them.30 At Saxa Rubra-Grottarossa north of Rome, for example, the acidic soil destroyed all or most infant and adult bones, the presence of very young children being recognizable only by the small size of some of the grave pits (55–65 × 30 cm).31 Furthermore, the small bones of human infants might be mistaken for animal bones until they are examined in post-excavation analysis. This is the situation at Castelraimondo in Udine and other sites in and beyond Italy.32 The degree to which infanticide and child exposure was practised in the Roman world often has been discussed, but it would be methodologically unsound



‘N o part in earthly things’

45

(and un-testable) to attribute any serious under-representation of infants in cemeteries to such practices.33 In light of the evidence discussed, we can no longer claim that the Romans rarely buried their infants properly. But there are nevertheless cemeteries in which infants under 1 are not present. The necropolis on the east side of the city of Musarna in Etruria, for example, is one of the few in Roman Italy that has been excavated in its entirety, and no children under the age of 1 were found to have been buried here in the second and third centuries AD.34 The absence of infants in some cemeteries in Roman Italy leads us to ask where these children might have been interred, perhaps in a different part of the cemetery or in another place. And it remains to be seen if there is a difference between Roman urban and rural settlements and whether location influenced child mortality. At Vallerano in Rome’s suburbium, for example, people lived under harsh and poor conditions with 73 per cent of the population dying between the age of 20 and 40.35 In places such as this, children might have been less protected against disease, food scarcity and damage than those living in the city of Rome. By the same token, dead children might have been deposited in places within settlements. Thomas Wiedemann claimed that children this age were normally buried in the city and within domestic buildings, but, as we have just seen, babies and infants are fairly well represented in extramural cemeteries, the location prescribed for burials by Roman law (my italics).36

Death and Disposal outside the Cemetery Perinatal, neonatal and post-neonatal burials, however, suddenly appear in some quantity in locations outside the cemetery in the late Roman and postRoman period. At Lugnano (Umbria), 47 skeletons of premature infants, neonates and post-neonatal children – possibly victims of malaria – were found in five rooms of an abandoned rural estate in the mid fifth century AD.37 Epidemics and catastrophes need not always have been the reason why parents in the late Roman and early Medieval period buried their dead infants under the floors or along the walls of rural buildings, as they did at Loppio-S. Andrea and Mezzocorona (both Trentino).38 There was a very long pre-Roman tradition of burying neonates and nurslings in ceramic containers within settlements in Italy, southern Gaul, the Alpine regions, and the eastern Mediterranean.39 In this sense, the burial of infants within settlements and buildings may have been an ancient tradition that was uninfluenced by Roman law or which enjoyed a resurgence after the breakdown of Roman society. The deposition of infants in settlements or living areas does not necessarily mean that they were not valued; perhaps in some places children who died so young were kept close to the community of the living as a sign of being special, or perhaps the parents simply chose this more private way of burying their children rather than the public act of interring them in the communal cemetery.

46

Families in the R oman and L ate A ntiq u e R oman Wo rld

The practice of burying an infant in a settlement, within or next to buildings, is thought to be what Fabius Planciades Fulgentius is referring to in his Explanation of Obsolete Words (7) although he does not specifically mention these particular locations: In former times the ancients called suggrundaria the burial places of infants who had not yet lived 40 days, because they could not be called graves since there were no bones to be cremated nor a big enough corpse for a cenotaph to be raised.

This treatise is quoted repeatedly in a very uncritical fashion, although it is highly problematic. After all, even tiny babies have bones that can be cremated, and a cenotaph is always a commemorative monument in the absence of a body, so the size of the body is irrelevant. Fulgentius’ muddled explanation of a word that was obsolete by the late fifth or sixth century, when he was writing, should warn us against using his definition in an archaeological sense with any confidence. Nevertheless, there is much need for greater care and attention paid to the possible remains of children when excavating domestic buildings and in urban and rural settlements in Italy.

The Bias of Roman Written and Visual Sources Three literary sources, in particular, are relevant to the attitudes of Roman society towards infant death. In the first, Ulpian writes that ‘children younger than 3 are not formally mourned, but are mourned in marginal form; a child less than a year receives neither formal mourning nor marginal mourning’.40 Plutarch’s account of the regulations imposed on Rome by one of its early kings is immediately relevant to this legal text, as it paraphrases the same comments on mourning.41 Formal mourning (lugetur) related to rules of behaviour and dress, such as abstaining from banquets and baths and from certain forms of adornment, and/or wearing black or white and cutting hair, but it is not clear what marginal mourning (sublugetur) entailed.42 Such regulations, however, impact on public lives and are not necessarily relevant to sentiments or activities in private. The grief that Plutarch and his wife must have felt on the death of their 2-year-old daughter would have been apparent behind closed doors, but it is their public behaviour that he highlights in a letter to his wife. He praises her restraint and his advice is to ‘keep our outward conduct as the laws command’.43 These laws, he writes, ‘forbid us to mourn for infants’ who were not given any of the rites that the living are expected to perform for the dead because ‘such children have no part in earth or earthly things’. Although normally family and friends would prepare the deceased for burial, keep watch over the body, and linger for a while in the cemetery after the interment, children of this young age, according to Plutarch, were not or should not be afforded this treatment. But stories about the public display of parental distress at the death of a child



‘N o part in earthly things’

47

are not uncommon in Roman literature. Most Roman mothers, according to Plutarch,44 gave themselves up totally to grief and to wild, frenzied mourning when their children died. Seneca was particularly critical of his friend Marullus whose young son died, claiming that such a loss was ‘a mere sting’ and a ‘slight burden’; in openly grieving, says Seneca, his friend was behaving like a woman.45 Even the emperor could come under criticism, as Nero did when his infant daughter died at less than 4 months old and he ‘showed himself incontinent in sorrow’.46 The writings of the Roman male elite on the desirability of noble conduct and parental detachment, if accepted at face value, would suggest that Roman parents, in order to protect themselves against the disappointment of their children dying in infancy, had only a limited personal relationship with them in the early phase of their life. Keith Bradley suggested that ‘wet-nursing was practised extensively among the upper classes’ because ‘the custom provided parents with a mechanism which operated against the over-investment of emotion in their children, or a cushion against the foreseeable loss of children and the accompanying emotional trauma’.47 That may, or may not be, the case for children of elite families who had a staff of child-minders in their employ, although even then we cannot simply rule out genuine emotional involvement. From the first century AD the various stages in the short life of a child can be depicted on biographical sarcophagi.48 Although the birth of a child is never shown, the baby’s first bath is a recurring motif that captures the moment when the wet-nurse and servants wash the child after birth and hand it over to its mother. After the first bath, the baby might be breast-fed by its mother or wet-nurse, although this kind of familiar intimacy is rare (Figure 4.3). A short life terminated by a premature death is made more poignant on sarcophagi of the later second century AD by depicting the dead child in the presence of the family and household.49 The deceased children are always several years old, rather than newborns, having had the chance to develop a social role and be the focus of the family’s hopes and aspirations for the future.50 The restrained parents of noble status in these death scenes are contrasted in their composed demeanour with child-minders of servile status who communicate their distress through bodily gestures. Like contemporary Roman written sources, these sarcophagi portray a world of privilege, wealth and social conformity according to status. They give us no real insight into the emotional engagement of the upper class with their infants. They also offer no help in judging how the less advantaged and the poor interacted with their children or coped with their premature death. The lower classes may not have been able to afford wet-nurses and care-givers or had none in their household, so what would have protected them from the immediate engagement with their own infants and the emotional trauma felt when they died far too young? Here the physical evidence from the Roman cemeteries examined above is particularly valuable, since many of the Italian necropoleis, and especially in the suburbium of Rome, were the last resting place of people

48

Families in the R oman and L ate A ntiq u e R oman Wo rld

who worked in agricultural and industrial communities, people who did not belong to the elite of Roman society. And this evidence suggests that infants and very young children were indeed buried as part of these communities, even if they are not always present in the same numbers everywhere. The cemetery evidence for burial in grave pits, protective coverings or containers, for the inclusion of grave goods appropriate to children this age, and for the sometimes close association with other family members, certainly points to an emotional engagement of the family with even the youngest children. The supposed equanimity with which parents in Roman Italy bore the loss of their infants and the claimed indifference to burying infants carefully are not confirmed by the actual burial evidence.

Epigraphic Sources: Commemorating Infants The Romans attached great importance to the preservation of memory. An investigation of their funerary monuments gives us profound insight into the ways in which texts and images were employed to convey information on peoples’ lives.51 The naming of the deceased in epitaphs on these monuments, as well as the dedicator of the memorial, commemorated both the dead and the relationship to family, friends and heirs that was publicly acknowledged in the inscription. Funerary monuments were set up to commemorate people of all age groups, but statistics show that only about 1.3 per cent of the tens of thousands of those in Rome and the rest of Italy record the death of babies younger than a year, and this particular group has not benefited from any in-depth analysis.52 Of the roughly 31,000 funerary inscriptions from the city of Rome itself, compiled in CIL 6, 116 of them commemorated children under the age of 1 (0.37  per cent). More boys (72) than girls (44) are represented in this age group. Various epithets are used for these children, ranging from ‘the sweetest’, ‘the dearest’, and ‘the most charming’ to ‘the most innocent’. Most often parents jointly commissioned and set up a memorial, followed in frequency by the father alone and then the mother, but occasionally grandparents and the nutrix acted as donors. Many of them ‘simply’ record the name of the child and its age at death as well as the name(s) of the commemorator(s) (Figure 4.4), but others are elaborate enough to possess a ‘portrait’ of the infant. The age at death is often very specific, including months, days and hours, such data highlighting the poignancy of a life snuffed out too early and acting as a reminder that the commemorators of that child had hoped to see it reach maturity.53 Although it is not entirely certain how much a stone marker would have cost, it is clear that the commissioning of such monuments represents a financial investment that was beyond the possibilities of the poor. The commissioning or purchasing of a monument reflects the will of the survivors to preserve the memory of a loved child, whether they were wealthy or not. But other factors,



‘N o part in earthly things’

49

aside from expressing love, might also have played a role in commemorating a dead infant. Recording the death of a free-born child, for example, would highlight the legal status of the parents, something that would be especially important to those parents who had been slaves but now were able to legally marry and have legitimate children. The motivation behind the spousal commemoration of Maena Mellusa, a freedwoman, and her two children under the age of 1 year might be that the boys were born as slaves before she and her husband Gaius Oenucius Delus, also a freedman, were manumitted (Figure 4.5).54 If this is so, the monument attests to a desire to commemorate even the youngest children and to make permanent the emotional attachment to children born under the most difficult of circumstances. Tiny infants also are sometimes depicted on grave stelae, usually with their mothers. Portraits of Roman women cradling a baby probably indicate that these women died during childbirth or shortly thereafter as a result of postnatal complications. The infant might not be included in the epitaph, as is the case with the grave stele of Scaevina Procilla from Ravenna; she is commemorated by her parents, but the swaddled baby in her arms is not mentioned.55 In this context, it is the mother who makes the depiction of an infant in funerary art possible, as she was the recipient of the memorial. Only very rarely might an infant under the age of one be portrayed on its own on a grave stele in Roman Italy, and we should see in this a reflection of the importance of children to those particular parents who commissioned monuments for them.56

Artefactual Evidence for Infant Health and Well-Being An indifference towards children is also questionable if we consider the many artefacts related to children’s health and their physical protection. They indicate that Roman parents did what they could to ensure the survival of their children. Likewise, there is ample evidence for measures taken by Roman women to conceive and experience a healthy pregnancy. The child as a swaddled baby is represented in a religious context, for example, since the sixth century BC in conjunction with the goddess Mater Matuta, an old Italic goddess symbolic for bringing a newborn into the light of the world.57 Many of her images at temples in Rome, Satricum and Capua survive, showing her as a seated matron holding up to 12 swaddled infants in her arms and on her lap (Figure 4.6). She clearly was an object of veneration by mothers and parents who wanted to conceive or whose children needed help. Votive dedications in sanctuaries, deposited as a thank offering to celebrate the birth of a child or as a petition for divine help in conceiving or healing an infant, can be found throughout central Italy from the third century BC.58 Apart from terracotta uteri and women or couples with infants, the most striking votives depict a life-size terracotta baby in swaddling clothes (Figure 4.7).59 Roman newborns were

50

Families in the R oman and L ate A ntiq u e R oman Wo rld

wrapped in swaddling clothes for the first 40 to 60 days of their lives until they were gradually released limb by limb from the bands, thus it is clear that these terracotta votives represent infants of this tender age who were deemed to be in particular need of divine protection.60 Such votive offerings are a visible reminder of the personal and emotional investment in the birth and wellbeing of children, and they allow us to gain insight into the attitudes towards pregnancy, childbirth and early infancy in a way that the written sources, and perhaps even the mortuary data, do not. The number of numina associated with different stages of childbirth and child-rearing clearly indicate society’s anxiety for the well-being of the child.61 Reflecting this anxiety are the strings of apotropaic amulets found with some regularity in graves of infants and young children, the necklaces perhaps having been worn by the child in life and in some way continuing to protect it even in death.62 There were many risks for a child at all stages of its development.63 The infant could die in the womb or during its birth, and with it the mother; cases of women perishing giving birth to twins, or in the eighth month of pregnancy, or after a protracted period of labour are recorded in funerary inscriptions.64And female skeletons buried with newborns occasionally are found in archaeological excavations.65 Poor nourishment, lack of sunlight, contaminated water and many other factors led to anaemia, rickets, infections and other deficiencies.66 The weaning process, when supplementary foods were introduced into the child’s diet, could also endanger the infant; this took place between the ages of 6 months and 3 years.67 Analysis of teeth from skeletons found in various cemeteries in Italy indicate that there were significant periods of stress which affected tooth growth in the first year of life which could be related to a change in diet.68 Newborn children and yearlings were obviously the most vulnerable age group of all children, and it is no wonder that divine help was often enlisted. Conclusions: No Part in Earthly Things? The children studied here include babies who were born prematurely, or died at birth or lived for less than a year. The number of infants in this age group who were given a permanent memorial in the Roman world clearly stands in contrast to the reality of infant mortality, considering that the first hours, weeks, and months of a child’s life were the most crucial period for a baby to survive. Perhaps the expectations of Roman society regarding commemoration of the dead did not relate as strongly to infants of such a young age, or perhaps the mourning of their passing was not an overtly public affair. But public funerary display is not the same as private sentiments of grief, and we should not assume, therefore, that Roman babies were disposed of indifferently. In fact, the broad geographical span of infant burials in Italian necropoleis, including those of non-elite communities and social groups, suggests that infants and very young children were often buried as part of the community, even though it is rare



‘N o part in earthly things’

51

that the number of infants in communal cemeteries reflect the estimated infant mortality rate of about 30 per cent. Nor do Plutarch’s comments ring true that infants had ‘no part in earthly things’ and were therefore not given any of the rites normally performed for the dead. The preparation of burial pits for the bodies of children and their containment in tile cists, wooden coffins and ceramic vessels, as well as the deposition of objects of a personal and utilitarian nature with them, attest to the range of rites and acts of piety performed for even the youngest members of society. Finally, although infant mortality was high in Roman Italy, the attention paid to rituals and practices ensuring pregnancy and healthy childbirth does not suggest that it made people immune to grief or that they did not care when their children were struck down by illness.

Figure 4.1  Burial of an infant 6 to 9 months of age in an amphora in the Porta Nocera cemetery at Pompeii. Photo École Française de Rome, Antoine Gailliot

52

Families in the R oman and L ate A ntiq u e R oman Wo rld

Figure 4.2 Terracotta feeding bottle found in the grave (Tomb 70) of a neonate at Portorecanati. Drawing J. Willmott

Figure 4.3  Funerary relief depicting the breast-feeding of an infant, Rome (Vatican Museums). Drawing J. Willmott



‘N o part in earthly things’

Figure 4.4  Marble epitaph of Satyrus, aged 8 months, 8 days and 3 hours, set up by his father Jason in the Isola Sacra cemetery at Portus. Photograph by the author

53

Figure 4.5 Funerary altar of a mother with two boys; 11 months old, and 3 months and 10 days old, Rome (Vatican Museums). Photograph by the author

Figure 4.6  Limestone statue of Mater Matuta suckling a swaddled infant, from Satricum (Villa Giulia, Rome). Photograph by the author

54

Families in the R oman and L ate A ntiq u e R oman Wo rld

Figure 4.7 Life-size terracotta votives in the form of swaddled infants, from Tarquinia (Ara della Regina), Falerii, Gravisca, Satricum and Campetti Veio (Drawings by J.  Willmott, not to scale)



‘N o part in earthly things’

55

Notes 1 2

Sallares et al.,2004; and Hänninen, 2005. Mackensen, 1978, Berger, 1993, Blaizot et al., 2003, Laubenheimer, 2004, Guiot et al., 2003; and Durand, 2008. 3 Houby-Nielsen, 2000, Tritsaroli and Valentin, 2008; and Hillson, 2009. 4 Rawson, 2003, p. 341. 5 Catalano et al., 2006. 6 Hopkins, 1966, Corvisier, 1985; and De la Genière, 1990. 7 Juvenal, Satires, 15.139. 8 Pliny the Elder, Natural History, 7.16.68, 72. 9 Lepetz and Van Andringa, 2010. 10 Allain et al., 1992, Laubenheimer, 2004, Gébara and Béraud, 1993, Girard, 1997; and Murail, 1997. 11 Duday, 2008, p. 215. 12 Cipollone, 2000. 13 Mercando et al., 1974; and Percossi Serenelli, 2001. 14 Small and Small, 2007; and Prowse and Small, 2009. 15 Filippi, 1982; and Malegni et al., 1982. 16 Catalano et al., 2001; and Catalano et al., 2006. 17 Egidi et al., 2003. 18 Egidi et al., 2003, p. 19, Cat. 21. 19 Catalano et al., 2009, 2. 20 Passi Pitcher, 1987; and Brasili and Belcastro, 1998, 174. 21 Egidi et al., 2003. 22 Catalano et al., 2009. 23 Buccellato et al., 2003, 337. 24 Catalano et al., 2003; and Musco, 2006. 25 Catalano et al., 2003. 26 Sperduti, 1995. 27 Craig et al., 2009. 28 Bel, 1992, Moliner et al., 2003, Mackensen, 1978 ; and Allain et al., 1992. 29 Février and Guéry, 1980. 30 Di Gennaro and De Filippis, 1995, 272, Baker et al., 2005, pp.  11–24, Durand, 2008, pp. 48–49. 31 Olivieri, 2007. 32 Giusberti, 1992, Cueni, 1997 and Berger, 1993, p. 320. 33 Smith and Kahila, 1992, Mays, 1993, Harris, 1994, Krauße, 1998; and Gowland and Chamberlain, 2002. 34 Rebillard, 2009. 35 Bedini et al., 1995; and Cucina et al., 2006. 36 Wiedemann, 1989, p. 179. 37 Soren and Soren, 1999. 38 Gaio, 2004, Cavada, 1994; and Griesbach, 2007. 39 Modica, 1993, Fabre, 1996, Becker, 1997, Vokotopoulou, 1999, van Rossenberg, 2008; and Dedet, 2008. 40 Ulpian, FIRA, 2.536. 41 Plutarch, Numa, 12. 42 Plutarch, Letter of Consolation to his Wife, 4, 6; and Paulus, Opinions, 1.21.14. 43 Plutarch, ibid., 4, 11. 44 Ibid., 6. 45 Seneca, Moral Essays, 99. 46 Tacitus, Annals, 15.23, see also Fronto, Letters, 1.6.7, 1.8. 47 Bradley, 1986, p. 220. 48 Amedick, 1991, Huskinson, 1996, Dimas, 1998; and George, 2000.

56

Families in the R oman and L ate A ntiq u e R oman Wo rld

49 Huskinson, 1996, pp. 10–11. 50 Rawson, 2003, pp. 354–357; and Laes, 2004. 51 Hope, 2001 and Carroll, 2006. 52 Hopkins, 1983, 225. 53 McWilliam, 2001, p. 93; and Rawson 2003, p. 352. 54 CIL VI.21805. 55 CIL XI.212, Mansuelli, 1967, pp. 143–144, fig. 48. 56 E.g. CIL VI.25572, Wrede, 1981: Cat. n. 222. 57 Coarelli, 1988; and Smith, 2000. 58 Bonfante, 1985, MacIntosh Turfa, 1994; and Baggieri et al., 1996. 59 Fenelli, 1975, Comella, 1982, pp. 18–22, Torelli 1998, pp. 61–62, 74–75; and Miller Ammerman, 2002, pp. 330–335. 60 Soranus, Gynaecology, 42.11. 61 Hänninen, 2005, pp. 50–53. 62 Jelski, 1984, Massa, 1997, p. 81, pl. 16.1; and Egidi et al., 2003, Cat. 19. 63 Facchni et al., 2004, Redfern, 2007, pp. 185–191; and Lewis, 2007. 64 CIL I.1215, CIL VI.28753, CIL III.2267 and CIL XIV.2737. 65 Bérato et al., 1997, Girard, 1997, p.  220, Mackinder, 2000, pp.  19–20, 42–43; and Cipollone, 2000, Tomb 74–75. 66 Mallegni et al., 1982, 64–65. 67 Katzenberg et al., 1996; and Dupras et al., 2001. 68 FitzGerald et al., 2006 and Prowse et al., 2008.

Bibliography Allain, J., Fauduet, I. and Tuffreau-Libre, M. (1992), La Nécropole Gallo-Romaine du Champ de l’Image à Argentomagus (St-Marcel, Indre), Saint-Marcel: Musée d’Argentomagus. Amedick, R. (1991), Die antiken Sarkophagreliefs. Die Sarkophage mit den Bildern aus dem Menschenleben: Vita Privata, Berlin: Gebrüder Mann. Baggieri, G., Margariti, P. A. and Giacomo, M. (1996), ‘Fertilità, virilità, maternità’, in Baggieri, G. and Rinaldi Veloccia, M. L. (eds), ‘Speranza e Sofferenza’. Nei Votivi Anatomici dell’Antichità, Origgio Varese: Ciba Edizioni, pp. 22–27. Baker, B. J., Dupras, T. L. and Tocheri, M. W. (2005), The Osteology of Infants and Children, College Station: Texas A & M Press. Becker, M. J. (1997), ‘Perinatal and other burial patterns in Lucania: Evidence from Collina San Salvatore at Immari, Italy during the 7th–6th centuries BC’, Old World Archaeology Newsletter, 20, (3), 1–12. Bedini, A., Testa, C. and Catalano, P. (1995), ‘Roma. Un sepolcreto di epoca Imperiale a Vallerano’, Archeologia Laziale, 12, (1), 319–331. Bel, V. (1992), ‘Les sépultures’, in Odiot, T., Bel, V. and Bois, M. (eds), D’Augusta Tricastinorum à Saint-Paul-Trois-Châteaux (Drôme), Lyon: Service régional de l’Archéologie de Rhône-Alpes, pp. 105–114. Bérato, J., Borréani, M., Brun, J.-P., Dutour, O. and Pálfi, G. (1997), ‘Le foetus antique de Costebelle (Hyères, Var) et ses lésions pathologiques’, in Buchet, L. (ed.), L’Enfant. Son Corps, son Histoire. Actes des 7èmes Journées



‘N o part in earthly things’

57

Anthropologiques de Valbonne 1994, Sophia Antipolis: Éditions APDCA, pp. 63–80. Berger, L. (1993), ‘Säuglings- und Kinderbestattungen in römischen Siedlungen der Schweiz – ein Vorbericht’, in Struck, M. (ed.), Römerzeitliche Gräber als Quellen zu Religion, Bevölkerungsstruktur und Sozialgeschichte, Mainz  : Institut für Vor- und Frühgeschichte, 319–328. Blaizot, F., Alix, G. and Ferber, E. (2003), ‘Le traitement funéraire des enfants décédés avant un an dans l’Antiquité: études de cas’, Bulletins et Mémoires de la Société d’Anthropologie de Paris, 15, (1/2), 49–77. Bonfante, L. (1986), ‘Votive terracotta figures of mothers and children’, in Italian Iron Age Artefacts in the British Museum, London: British Museum Press, pp. 195–203. Bradley, K. R. (1986), ‘Wet-nursing at Rome: a study in social relations’, in Rawson, B. (ed.), The Family in Ancient Rome, Ithaca: Cornell University Press, pp. 201–229. Brasili, F. and Belcastro, M. G. (1998), ‘La necropolis di Quadrella (Isernia) (I-IV sec.d.C.) e il popolamento dell’Italia Centrale in epoca romana: aspetti paleodemografici’, Rivista di Antropologia, 76, 171–182. Buccellato, A., Catalano, P., Arrighetti, B., Caldarini, C., Colonnelli, G., Di Bernardini, M., Minozzi, S., Pantano, W., Santandrea, S. and Torri, C. (2003), ‘Il comprensorio della necropolis di Via Basiliano (Roma): un’indagine multidisciplinare’, MEFRA, 115, (1), 311–376. Carroll, M. (2006), Spirits of the Dead. Roman Funerary Commemoration in Western Europe, Oxford: Oxford University Press. Catalano, P., D’Agostino, A., Egidi, R., Ghelli, A., Pantano, W., Spadoni, D., Letizia, M. and Luglio, G. (2009), ‘L’area archeologica di via Aldini (Roma – X Municipio): la necropoli romana’, Journal of Fasti Online, (www.fastionline. org/docs/FOLDER -it-2009–409.pdf). Catalano, P., Amicucci, G., Benassi, V., Caldarini, C., Caprara, M., Carboni, L., Colonnelli, G., De Angelis, F., Di Giannantonio, S., Minozzi, S., Pantano, W. and Porreca, F. (2006), ‘Gli insiemi funerari d’epoca imperiale: L’indagine antropologica di campo’, in Tomei, M. A. (ed.), Roma. Memorie dal Sottosuolo. Ritrovamenti Archeologici 1980–2006, Rome: Electa, pp. 560–563. Catalano, P., Minozzi, S. and Pantano, W. (2001), ‘Le necropoli romane di età imperiale: Un contributo all’interpretazione del popolamento e della qualità della vita nell’antica Roma’, in Quilici, L. and Quilici Gigli, S. (eds), Atlante Tematico di Topografia Antica, Vol. 10, pp. 127–137. Cavada, E. (1994), ‘Sit tibi terra levis: la casa come luogo funerario’, in Cavada, E. (ed.), Archeologia a Mezzocorona. Documenti per la Storia del Popolamento Rustico di Età Romana nell’Area Atesina, Trento: Provincia autonoma di Trento, pp. 267–274. Cipollone, M. (2000), ‘Gubbio (Perugia). Necropoli in loc. Vittorina. Campagne di scavo 1980–1982’, NSc, 9, (11), 5–372.

58

Families in the R oman and L ate A ntiq u e R oman Wo rld

Coarelli, F. (1988), Il Foro Boario dalle Origini alla Fine della Repubblica, Rome: Edizioni Quasar. Comella, A. (1982), Il Deposito Votivo Presso l’Ara della Regina (Tarquinia), Rome: Giorgio Bretschneider. Corvisier, J.-N. (1985), Santé et Société en Grèce Ancienne, Paris: Economica. Craig, O. E., Biazzo, M., O’Connell, T. C., Garnsey, P., Martinez-Labarga, C., Lelli, R., Salvadei, L., Tartaglia, G., Nava, A., Reno, L., Fiammenghi, A., Rickards, O. and Bondioli, L. (2009), ‘Stable isotopic evidence for diet at the Imperial Roman coastal site of Velia (1st and 2nd centuries AD) in southern Italy’, American Journal of Physical Anthropology, 139, 572–583. Cucina, A., Vargiu, R., Mancinelli, D., Ricci, R., Santandrea, E., Catalano, P. and Coppa, A. (2006), ‘The necropolis of Vallerano (Rome, 2nd–3rd century AD): an anthropological perspective on the ancient Romans in the Suburbium’, International Journal of Osteoarchaeology, 16, 104–117. Cueni, A. (1997), ‘Die säuglingsbestattungen’, in Fetz, H. and Meyer-Freuler, C., Triengen, Murhubel. Ein römischer Gutshof im Suretal, Luzern: Schweizerische Gesellschaft für Ur- und Frühgeschichte, pp. 415–417. Dedet, B. (2008), ‘La mort du nouveau-né et du nourrisson dans la sud de la France protohistorique (IXe–1er siècle avant J.  C.)’, in Gusi Jener F., Muriel, S. and Olària. C. (eds), Nasciturus, Infans, Puerulus Vobis Mater Terra: la Muerte en la Infancia, La Rioja: Diputació de Castelló, pp. 143–182. De la Genière, J. (1990), ‘Les sociétés antiques à travers leurs nécropoles’, MEFRA 102, 83–91. Di Gennaro, F. and De Filippis, M. (1995), ‘Un Sepolcreto d’età Imperiale nella tenuta bocconoe d’aste’, Archeologia Laziale, 12, (1), 267–274. Dimas, S. (1998), Untersuchungen zur Themenwahl und Bildgestaltung auf römischen Kindersarkophagen, Münster: Scriptorium. Duday, H. (2008), ‘Une inhumation d’enfant dans la nécropole de Porta Nocera à Pompéi‘, in Scheid, J. (ed.), Pour une Archéologie du Rite. Nouvelles Perspectives de l’Archéologie Funéraires, Rome: École Française de Rome, pp. 211–221. Dupras, T. L., Schwarcz, H. P. and Fairgreave, S. I. (2001), ‘Infant feeding and weaning practices in Roman Egypt’, American Journal of Physical Anthropology, 115, (3), 204–212. Durand, R. (2008), ‘Données paléodémographiques et classes d’âge immatures: Recrutement et gestion des enfants dans les espaces funéraires gallo-romains’, in Gusi Jener, F., Muriel, S. and Olària. C. (eds), Nasciturus, Infans, Puerulus Vobis Mater Terra: la Muerte en la Infancia, La Rioja: Diputació de Castelló, pp. 41–56. Egidi, R., Catalano, P. and Spadoni, D. (eds) (2003), Aspetti di Vita Quotidiana dalle Necropoli della Via Latina, Rome: Museo Nazionale Romano. Fabre, V. (1996), ‘L’inhumation des enfants en milieu domestique comme critère d’identification culturelle’, in L’Identité des Populations Archéologiques.



‘N o part in earthly things’

59

XVIe Rencontres Internationales d’Archéologie et de l’Histoire d’Antibes, Sophia Antipolis: Éditions APDCA, pp. 403–414. Facchini, F., Rastelli, E. and Brasili, P. (2004), ‘Cribra orbitalia and cribra crania in Roman skeletal remains from the Ravenna area and Rimini (I–IV Century AD)’, International Journal of Osteoarchaeology, 14, 126–136. Fenelli, M. (1975), ‘Contributo per lo studio del votivo anatomici. I votivi anatomici di Lavinio’, Archeologia Classica, 27, (2), 206–252. Février, P.-A. and Guéry, R. (1980), ‘Les rites funéraires de la nécropole orientale de Sétif ’, Antiquités Africaines, 15, 91–124. Filippi, F. (1982), ‘Necropoli di età romana in Regione San Cassiano di Alba. Indagine archeologica negli anni 1979–1981’, Quaderni della Soprintendenza Archeologica del Piemonte, 1, 1–49. FitzGerald, C., Saunders, S., Bondioli, L. and Macchiarelli, R. (2006), ‘Health of infants in an Imperial Roman skeletal sample: perspective from dental microstructure’, American Journal of Physical Anthropology, 130, (2), 179–189. Gaio, S. (2004), ‘ “Quid sint suggrundaria”. Le sepoltura infantile a enchytrismos di Loppio-S. Andrea (TN)’, Annali dei Musei Civici di Rovereto, 20, 53–90. Gébara, C. and Béraud, I. (2003), ‘Rites funéraires et sépultures d’enfants dans les nécropoles de Fréjus, Var (France)’, in Struck, M. (ed.), Römerzeitliche Gräber als Quellen zu Religion, Bevölkerungsstruktur und Sozialgeschichte, Mainz : Institut für Vor- und Frühgeschichte, pp. 329–336. George, M. (2000), ‘Family and Familia on Roman Biographical Sarcophagi’, RM, 107, 191–207. Girard, L. (1997), ‘Les sujets immatures du cimetière gallo-romain de Chantambre (Essonne). Pratiques funéraires’, in Buchet, L. (ed.), L’enfant, son Corps et son Histoire. Actes des 7èmes Journées Anthropologiques de Valbonne, Sophia Antipolis: Éditions APDCA, 211–225. Giusberti, G. (1992), ‘Reste scheletrici di feti umani a Castelraimondo’, in Santoro Bianchi, S. (ed.), Castelraimondo Scavi 1988–1990, Rome: L’Erma di Bretschneider, pp. 265–281. Gowland, R. and Chamberlain, A. T. (2002), ‘A Bayesian approach to ageing perinatal skeletal material from archaeological sites: Implications for the evidence for infanticide in Roman-Britain’, Journal of Archaeological Science, 29, 677–689. Griesbach, J. (2007), Villen und Gräber. Siedlungs- und Bestattungsplätze der Römischen Kaiserzeit im Suburbium von Rom, Rahden: Leidorf. Guiot, T., Couvin, F. and Blanchard, P. (2003), ‘Le site antique (Ier-IIIe siècle) des Béziaux à Langeais (Indre-et-Loire)’, Revue Archéologique du Centre de la France, 42, 75–119. Gusi Jener, F., Muriel, S. and Olària. C. (eds) (2008), Nasciturus, Infans, Puerulus Vobis Mater Terra: la Muerte en la Infancia, La Rioja: Diputació de Castelló. Hänninen, M.-L. (2005), ‘From womb to family. Rituals and social conventions connected to Roman birth’, in Mustakallio, K., Hanska, J., Sainio, H.-L, and Vuolanto, V. (eds), Hoping for Continuity. Childhood, Education and Death

60

Families in the R oman and L ate A ntiq u e R oman Wo rld

in Antiquity and the Middle Ages, Rome: Institutum Romanum Finlandiae, pp. 49–60. Harris, W. V. (1994), ‘Child-exposure in the Roman Empire’, JRS, 84, 1–22. Hillson, S. (2009), ‘The world’s largest infant cemetery and its potential for studying growth and development’, in Schepartz, L. A., Fox, S. C. and Bourbon, C. (eds), New Directions in the Skeletal Biology of Greece, Athens: American School of Classical Studies, pp. 137–154. Hope, V. M. (2001), Constructing Identity: The Roman Funerary Monuments of Aquileia, Mainz and Nîmes, Oxford: Archaeopress. Hopkins, K. (1983), Death and Renewal, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. —(1966), ‘On the probable age structure of the Roman population’, Population Studies, 20, 254–264. Houby-Nielsen, S. (2000), ‘Child burials in ancient Athens’, in Sofaer Derevenski, J. (ed.), Children and Material Culture, Abingdon: Routledge, pp. 151–166. Huskinson, J. (1984), Roman Children’s Sarcophagi. Their Decoration and its Social Significance, Oxford: Clarendon Press. Jelski, G. (1984), ‘Pendentifs phalliques, clochettes et peltae dans les tombs d’enfants’, Revue du Nord, 66, 260–279. Katzenberg, M. A., Herring, D. A. and Saunders, S. R. (1996), ‘Weaning and infant mortality: Evaluating the skeletal evidence’, American Journal of Physical Anthropology, 101, 177–199. Krauße, D. (1998), ‘Infantizid’, in Müller-Karpe, A., Brandt, H., Jöns, H., Krauße, D. and Wigg, A. (eds), Studien zur Archäologie der Kelten, Römer und Germanen in Mittel- und Westeuropa, Rahden: Verlag Marie Leidorf, pp. 313–352. Laes, C. (2004), ‘High hopes, bitter grief: children in Latin literary inscriptions’, in Partoens, G., Roskam, G. and Van Houdt, T. (eds), Virtutis imago. Studies on the Conceptualization and Transformation of an Ancient Ideal, Louvain: Peeters, pp. 43–76. Laubenheimer, F. (2004), ‘La mort des tout-petits dans l’occident romain’, in Dasen, V. (ed.), Naissance et Petite Enfance dans l’Antiquité. Actes du Colloque de Fribourg, 28 Novembre–1er Décembre 2001, Göttingen: Academic Press Fribourg, Vandenhoeck and Ruprecht, pp. 293–315. Lepetz, S. and van Andringa, W. (2011), ‘Publius Vesonius Phileros vivos monumentum fecit: Investigations in a sector of the Porta Nocera cemetery in Roman Pompeii’, in Carroll, M. and Rempel, J. (eds), Living through the Dead. Burial and Commemoration in the Classical World, Oxford: Oxbow pp. 110–133. Lewis, M. E. (2007), The Bioarchaeology of Children: Perspectives from Biological and Forensic Anthropology, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. MacIntosh Turfa, J. (1994), ‘Anatomical votives and Italian medical traditions’, in De Puma, R. D. and Small, J. P. (eds), Murlo and the Etruscans.



‘N o part in earthly things’

61

Art and Society in Ancient Etruria, Madison: University of Wisconsin Press, pp. 224–240. Mackensen, M. (1978), Das Römische Gräberfeld auf der Keckwiese in Kempten (Cambodunumforschungen IV), Kallmünz: M. Lassleben. Mackinder, A. (2000), A Romano-British Cemetery on Watling Street. Excavations at 165 Great Dover Street, Southwark, London, London: MoLAS Archaeology Studies. Mallegni, F. et al., (1982), ‘Necropoli di età romana in Regione San Cassiano di Alba’, Quaderni della Soprintendenza Archeologica del Piemonte, 1, 51–88. Mansuelli, G. A. (1967), Le Stele Romane del Territorio Ravennate e del Basso Po, Ravenna: Edizioni A. Longo. Massa, S. (1997), Aeterna Domus. Il Complesso Funerario di Età Romana del Lugone (Salò), Salò: Comune di Salò. Mays, S. (1993), ‘Infanticide in Roman Britain’, Antiquity, 67, 883–888. McWilliam, J. (2001), ‘Children among the dead’, in Dixon, S. (ed.), Childhood, Class and Kin in the Roman World, London: Routledge, pp. 74–98. Mercando, L., Sorda, S. and Capitanio, S. (1974), ‘Portorecanati (Macerata). La necropoli romana di Portorecanati’, NSc, 142–445. Miller Ammermann, R. (2002), The Sanctuary of Santa Venera at Paestum II. The Votive Terracottas, Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press. Modica, S. (1993), ‘Sepolture infantili nel Lazio protostorico’, Bullettino della Commissione Archeologica Comunale di Roma, 95, 7–18. Moliner, M., Mellinand, P., Naggiar, L., Richier, A. and Villemeur, I. (2003), La nécropole de Sainte-Barbe à Marseille (IVe s. av. J.-C.-IIe s. apr. J.-C.), Aix-enProvence: Édisud. Murail, P. (1997), ‘Pratiques funéraires et paléodemographie: Les subjects immatures de la nécropole Gallo-Romaine de Chantambre (Essonne)’, in Buchet, L. (ed.), L’Enfant. Son Corps, son Histoire. Actes des 7èmes Journées Anthropologiques de Valbonne 1994, Sophia Antipolis: Éditions APDCA, pp. 227–237. Musco, S. (2006), ‘La necropoli Collatina. Viale della Serenissima-Via Andriulli’, in Tomei, M. A. (ed.), Roma. Memorie dal Sottosuolo. Ritrovamenti Archeologici 1980 -2006, Rome: Electa, pp. 284–285. Mustakallio, K., Hanska, J., Sainio, H.-L, and Vuolanto, V. (eds) (2005), Hoping for Continuity. Childhood, Education and Death in Antiquity and the Middle Ages, Rome: Institutum Romanum Finlandiae. Olivieri, D. (2007), ‘La necropoli’, in Messineo, G. (ed.), Saxa Rubra. Rome: Libreria dello Stato, pp. 60–71. Passi Pitcher, L. (ed.) (1987), Sub Ascia. Una Necropoli Romana a Nave, Modena: Edizioni Panini. Percossi Serenelli, E. (2001), ‘Quando poi scese il silenzio…un’ipotesi di lettura della necropolis di Potentia’, in Percossi Serenelli, E. (ed.), Potentia. Quando Poi Scese il Silenzio, Milan: Federico Motta Editore, pp. 158–173. Prowse, T., Schwarcz, H. P., Saunders, S., Macchiarelli, R. and L. Bondioli, L.

62

Families in the R oman and L ate A ntiq u e R oman Wo rld

(2008), ‘Isotopic paleodiet studies of skeletons from the Imperial Roman-age cemetery of Isola Sacra, Rome, Italy’, Journal of Archaeological Science, 31, 259–272. Prowse, T. and Small, A. (2009), ‘Excavations in the Roman cemetery at Vagnari 2008. Preliminary report’, Journal of Fasti Online, (www.fastionline.org/docs/ FOLDER-it-2009–131). Rawson, B. (2003), Children and Childhood in Roman Italy, Oxford: Oxford University Press. Rebillard, E. (2009), Musarna 3. La Nécropole Impériale, Rome: École Française de Rome. Redfern, R. (2007), ‘The influence of culture upon childhood: an osteological study of Iron Age and Romano-British Dorset’, in Harlow, M. and Laurence, R. (eds), Age and Ageing in the Roman Empire, Portsmouth: Journal of Roman Archaeology, pp. 171–194. Russell, J. C. (1985), The Control of Late Ancient and Medieval Population, Philadelphia: American Philosophical Society Sallares, R., Bouwman, A. and Anderung, C. (2004), ‘The spread of malaria to southern Europe: New approaches to old problems’, Medical History, 48, (3), 311–328. Small A. M. and Small, C. M. (2007), ‘Excavations in the Roman cemetery at Vagnari in the territory of Gravina, Puglia, 2002’, Papers of the British School at Rome, 75, 123–229. Smith, C. (2000), ‘Worshipping Mater Matuta: Ritual and context’, in Bispham, E. and Smith, C. (eds), Religion in Archaic and Republican Rome and Italy, Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press, pp. 136–155. Smith, P. and Kahila, G. (1992), ‘Identification of infanticide in archaeological sites: A case study from the Late Roman-Early Byzantine periods at Ashkelon, Israel’, Journal of Archaeological Science, 19, (6), 667–675. Soren, D. and Soren, N. (1999), A Roman Villa and a Late-Roman Infant Cemetery: Excavation at Poggio Gramignano, Lugnano in Teverina, Rome: L’Erma di Bretschneider. Sperduti, A. (1995), I Resti Scheletrici Umani della Necropoli di Età RomanoImperiale di Isola Sacra (I-III sec. d. C.). Analisi Paleodemografica, Rome: La Sapienza. Struck, M. (ed.) (1993), Römerzeitliche Gräber als Quellen zu Religion, Bevölkerungsstruktur und Sozialgeschichte, Mainz: Institut für Vor- und Frühgeschichte. Tocheri, M. W., Dupras, T. L., Sheldrick, P. and Molto, E. (2005), ‘Roman period fetal skeletons from Kellis, Egypt’, International Journal of Osteoarchaeology, 15, (5), 326–341. Torelli, M. (1999), Tota Italia. Essays in the Cultural Formation of Roman Italy, Oxford: Clarendon Press. Tritsaroli, P. and Valentin, F. (2008), ‘Byzantine burial practices for children: Case studies based on a bioarchaeological approach to cemeteries from



‘N o part in earthly things’

63

Greece’, in Gusi Jener, F., Muriel, S. and Olària. C. (eds), Nasciturus, Infans, Puerulus Vobis Mater Terra: la Muerte en la Infancia, La Rioja: Diputació de Castelló, 83–113. Van Rossenberg, E. (2008), ‘Infant/child burials and social reproduction in the Bronze Age and early Iron Age (c. 2100–800 BC) of Central Italy’, in Bacvarov, K. (ed.), Babies Reborn: Infant/Child Burials in Pre- and Protohistory, Oxford: Archaeopress, pp. 161–194. Vokotopoulou, J. (1994), ‘Ancienne nécropoles de la Chalcidique’, in Nécropoles et Sociétés Antiques (Grèce, Italie, Languedoc. Actes du Colloque International de Lille (1991), Naples: Centre Jean Bérard, pp. 79–98. Wiedemann, T. (1989), Adults and Children in the Roman Empire, London: Routledge. Wrede, H. (1981), Consecratio in Formam Deorum: Vergöttlichte Privatpersonen in der Römischen Kaiserzeit, Mainz: Philipp von Zabern.

5

The Representation of Physical Contact on Roman Tombstones* Jason Mander Are you building my monument just as I ordered? I ask you especially to carve at the feet of my statue a little puppy, garlands, perfume jars and all Petraites’ fights, so that with your help I may live on after death. It is to be a hundred feet along the front and two hundred at the back, for around my ashes I wish there to be all types of apple trees and ample vines. Truly it is so wrong to have such refined houses for the living, yet never bother with those where we will remain much longer … To my right place a statue of my Fortunata, holding a dove and leading a puppy on a leash, and my favourite boy. (Petron. Sat. 71)

As noted over 20 years ago, the description of Trimalchio’s tomb is a treasure chest of information for those working on Roman funerary commemoration.1 From details of the intended iconography to specifications about the monument’s inscription and surrounding environment, the text offers an unrivalled account of how a Roman, albeit one of caricature and excess, wished to be buried. Of course, the nature of the passage necessitates the use of considerable caution and any attempts to find absolute truths within it are inherently problematic; but a recent plea has urged scholars to all but abandon the text lest they create a ‘Trimalchio vision’ in which elite perspectives are over-emphasized and the character is seen as unduly representative.2 The resultant reluctance to use the cena Trimalchionis in discussions of funerary art seems a great shame – there are very clear reflections and parallels to be found on countless extant monuments, with the incidental details often proving to be some of the most accurate.3 In the excerpt reproduced above, for example, one could note that wives did indeed tend to appear to the right of their husbands and that the pets associated with Fortunata – a bird and dog – were by far the most commonplace animals in sepulchral portrait scenes. The picture, then, was at least partially derived from reality, making an examination of the way in which Trimalchio prioritizes his various images, as well as the social themes to which they allude, perfectly legitimate. To emphasize his great wealth, the freedman requests scenes of money distribution and banqueting; to reflect his municipal importance, he wishes to be shown clad in a toga and sitting on a ceremonial dais; to illustrate the source of his fortune, he orders a shipping motif. But at the very centre of this extraordinarily rich iconographic programme, he wants statues of himself, his



T he R epresentatio n o f P hysical C o ntact

65

wife Fortunata and his beloved boy (whether the latter was biologically related or not is unclear and, arguably, of little relative importance).4 He even specifies the attributes with which each individual should be shown, describes the poses they should assume and dictates how the images should be arranged spatially. With the fundamental purpose of a funerary monument being to preserve memory, Trimalchio evidently considered portraiture as an integral part of the process;5 and while compositions, dress and other details change from monument to monument and from region to region, it must be significant that portraits were imbued with the same profound importance by thousands of commissioners across the empire. Indeed, the nuclear group of man, woman and child(ren) is reproduced time and time again, both by commissioners of a similar background to Trimalchio as well as those socially, temporally and geographically quite removed. The widespread use of family imagery has received growing attention over the years; first noted in the still-influential works on various types of funerary monument by Paul Zanker, Diana Kleiner and Valentin Kockel, it is probably Beryl Rawson whose research has done the most to elevate its importance.6 Following her seminal book on childhood in Roman Italy, with an extended chapter devoted to visual representations across a range of genres, the last decade has seen a (long overdue) flurry of publications devoted to the family in Roman art.7 With each new study, the visual evidence is slowly beginning to receive the prominence it deserves and should soon stand alongside epigraphic, legal and literary material rather than being used largely as supporting fodder. Yet particularly in relation to the ‘private’ sepulchral images there is much still to be done: provincial tombstones remain somewhat neglected, the images are often trivialized and the genre as a whole is arguably considered too subservient to, and imitative of, ‘public’ art. The subject treated in this paper is the representation of family embraces, one of the many areas in which more research is needed. It is not pretended that one article can give the topic the full attention it demands but, as the conference at which this paper was first presented focused specifically on ‘new directions in the study of the family in antiquity’, it is hoped that investigating the possible motives behind this iconographic feature will challenge preconceptions about how we interpret family scenes and help to highlight the hitherto under-discussed regional diversity of images on Roman tombstones.8 Physical contact between individuals can be a rather emotive topic and, try as one might, it is often difficult to avoid the influence of modern attitudes. In our westernized society the idea of ‘personal space’ has become ever-more sacrosanct; strangers must not intrude into it and anything other than the briefest public displays of affection are, in certain cultures, to be reviled. Carrying connotations of familiarity and intimacy, the act of touching or embracing someone is typically reserved for a relatively limited circle of individuals. Yet as Natalie Kampen has recently demonstrated, a comparable level of reserve can be seen in certain quarters of Roman art. The representation of physical touch in

66

Families in the R oman and L ate A ntiq u e R oman Wo rld

imperial scenes conforms to a clear hierarchy; seen as something of a privilege, the emperor is rarely touched, let alone embraced, with such contact instead being the preserve of women, the lower classes and foreigners who, to varying degrees, lack sufficient control over their bodies.9 By casting as she does a critical eye over the Ara Pacis, one can identify some interesting gender patterns. Sometimes characterized as a ‘charming’ or ‘naturalistic’ scene of family life, it is certainly right to recognize that the children on the Augustan altar are differentiated by age, height and behaviour and that most of the adult-child interaction seems realistic.10 Still, contact between the various participants of the procession follows certain rules: men and women do not touch or embrace each other and, with just one exception, they react to the gestures and needs of the children in different ways (men largely ignoring the children, women responding to them or even initiating physical contact).11 To take as an example the two young boys

Figure 5.1  Stele of Aelius Quartinus and family (detail). Enns, Museum Lauriacum, inv. R X 176. Photograph: O. Harl. (www.ubi-erat-lupa.org)



T he R epresentatio n o f P hysical C o ntact

67

most often classified as foreign princes or captives, they pull at or cling to the togas of apparently uninterested men; in clear contrast, the eastern ‘queen’ on the south frieze places her hand on the boy’s head. Again, in relation to the children of the imperial household, Antonia the Younger holds the hand of Germanicus while Antonia the Elder rests her hand on the shoulder of Domitius Ahenobarbus.12 A different but no less telling gender hierarchy is evident in other imperial scenes where Jeannine Uzzi has shown that Roman children tend be associated with men, ‘non-Roman’ children with women.13 If the representation of physical touch on public monuments differed depending on the gender, age and social status of the persons involved, some thought should be given to our understanding of similar gestures in sepulchral art. Given the context, it is of course extremely tempting to interpret any contact as a sign of familial affection and one could support this view with well-chosen (if sometimes isolated) examples. Such an assumption is inherently plausible but may be problematic. Most importantly, relatively few sepulchral scenes feature any physical interaction between family members; embraces are the exception rather than the norm and their geographical attestation is uneven. One should not therefore presuppose that the iconography was employed for exactly the same reasons on tombstones from different periods and parts of the empire. Further, it is hard to cite definitive proof to support the suggestion that the gestures relate to affection, forcing (over)reliance on personal reactions. Finally, the expression of love is usually given as the only or at least primary explanation, precluding the possibility that the gestures might have served other functions. One example which has received recent attention will serve to illustrate the potential complexity of the iconography: the funerary stele of Aelius Quartinus and his family from Lauriacum (modern Enns) in Noricum (Figure 5.1).14 Erected in the early third century by a soldier from the second legion, the stone bears five portraits together with the following inscription: DM AEL QVARTINVS CORN LEG II ITAL P F VIVVS FECIT SIBI ET AVR CRISPINAE CONIVG VIVAE FECIT ET AEL QVAR FIL O AN XIIII ET FILIS DVOBVS VIVIS FECIT To the Spirits of the Departed. Aelius Quartinus, cornicularius in the legio II Italica Pia Fidelis, did (this) while living for himself and for Aurelia Crispina, his wife, living when this was done, and for Aelia Quartina, daughter who died aged 14, and for his two sons, living when this was done.

68

Families in the R oman and L ate A ntiq u e R oman Wo rld

Reconciling individuals named in the inscription with their portraits is not always a straight-forward task, though based on iconographic comparisons with other stones from Noricum and adjacent Pannonia, it is likely in this instance that the commissioner, Quartinus, is at the top right, with his wife Crispina at the left and his daughter Quartina in the centre; his two sons appear in the lower row. What makes this example particularly interesting is the extensive use of physical touch between the family members – four of the five individuals either receive or initiate contact. Both parents place their right hands on the shoulders of the boys in front while the mother also rests one of her hands on the shoulder of her husband (it is not that of the daughter as sometimes described: she instead uses two hands to hold a bird). With four members of the family still living, it seems reasonable to postulate that the tombstone was erected following the death of daughter Quartina; but this arguably makes her exclusion from the physical contact all the more surprising. To explain the apparent discrepancy, one could claim a gender hierarchy: in relation to the children, the boys receive contact while the girl does not; in terms of the adults, the woman touches the husband but the gesture is not reciprocated. Alternatively, the contact may have been designed to reaffirm bonds between the still-living members following the loss of their beloved daughter and sister. Perhaps this arrangement was arrived at entirely by chance, with Quartina’s exclusion being entirely accidental and unplanned, or else a mistake was made by the sculptor (it is not inconceivable that three hands were cut for the girl: awkward alterations do exist on other pieces following unintended errors). For any tombstone considered in isolation it is unlikely that just one explanation will be identifiable, with the final two scenarios in particular showing the need for some caution before too much significance is attached to who touches whom. However, if the stone is placed in the context of others which bear similar iconography, it raises some rather more fundamental questions. How are we to explain the very presence of physical touch in sepulchral iconography? Does it carry connotations of status? Does it relate to the expression of affection? Is it designed to announce relationship types? Are all three concepts relevant and, if so, how should they be prioritized? To determine which, if any, of these factors may have relevance, the iconography needs to be analysed in considerable depth.15 After several years of scouring publications, catalogues and museum deposits for tombstones from the Roman west which feature child portraits, my database now contains nearly 900 examples; drawn from Rome, Italy and 15 of the western provinces, they cover a substantial geographical area as well as a range of monument genres.16 Such a corpus seems an ideal place to investigate this visual phenomenon, containing as it does several hundred scenes of interaction, whether between parent(s) and child(ren) or husband and wife. The former, which is more common in my database, will be treated elsewhere; this article concentrates on the 70 scenes featuring physical contact between spouses. To give the impression of a close connection between husband and wife it is not in fact necessary for them to touch or embrace one another; eye contact



T he R epresentatio n o f P hysical C o ntact

69

Figure 5.2 Relief for a family from Noricum. St Veit an der Glan, Pfarrkirche. Photograph: O. Harl. (www.ubi-erat-lupa.org)

and/or the assumption of particular poses can perform the same function, sometimes giving the scenes in question a pleasing symmetry which might be reflective of marital concordia. On a relief from Virunum (now Zollfeld in Austria), two parents appear behind their son in a composition typical for the area; the woman holds an apple or pomegranate and is dressed in ‘local’ garments, including a tube dress and bonnet, while the more ‘Romanized’ man clutches a scroll and wears a toga (Figure 5.2).17 There is no bodily contact between the two; the adults instead turn their heads towards one another, their gazes united. Interesting as these examples may be, however, since touch is so heavily controlled in ‘public’ art, inclusion in this paper is limited to those tombstones on which there is some sort of actual contact between husband and wife (even if in many cases this is supplemented by unified eye contact and poses). With the parameters defined as such, two things are at once noticeable. First, that the range of gestures and embraces employed on the monuments is relatively small. Among the myriad of differing arrangements which might have been used to connect the couples, contact is limited almost exclusively to two types: the dextrarum iunctio (the symbolic joining of the right hands which occurred as part of the marriage ceremony, seen in 25 instances) and the placement of a hand on or around a spouse’s shoulder (42 examples). The only alternatives to these – whereby a hand is placed on an arm or the spouses hold hands as modern couples might – appear just three times. Naturally, sculptural practicalities play their part, as, arguably, do

70

Families in the R oman and L ate A ntiq u e R oman Wo rld

artistic conventions, but even if one makes appropriate allowances for these factors then the consistency of the iconography remains striking. Second, within the western empire there are two clear geographical concentrations of sepulchral scenes in which couples interact. The first comprises Rome and Italy (23 examples), the second encompasses what one might (loosely) term the Danube provinces of Raetia, Noricum, the Pannonias and Dacia (40 examples). The remaining areas, covering the provinces in Spain, Britain, Germany and Gaul, produce a meagre seven examples between them and offer a stark warning that, as Natalie Kampen has recently noted, the representation of physical contact was subject to strong regional preferences.18 This begs the question as to why commissioners in some areas adopted the imagery with great vigour while those in other parts of the empire seem to have shunned it. To begin to answer this, it is crucial to establish the identities of the various commissioners and recipients. This already notoriously fraught process is made still harder here as just half of the tombstones preserve their inscriptions, still fewer of them in complete forms. Still, those which do retain epigraphic information point very strongly to certain social groups, with profound iconographic and stylistic similarities suggesting that it may be appropriate to extrapolate comparable attributions for those which now lack any accompanying inscriptions. In Rome and Italy, all of the tombstones with preserved texts can be connected with libertini (freedmen) or their recent descendants. Where the telltale ‘L’ appears in their nomenclature these attributions are secure; at other times husbands and wives share common nomina (family names), making a similar classification highly likely if necessarily speculative. Within this Italian group the most frequent type of physical connection between libertini spouses is the dextrarum iunctio, accounting for 17 of the 23 scenes.19 On occasion it is supplemented by an additional motif whereby one of the pair places his or her free left hand around their spouse’s shoulder.20 As the viewer sees it, the man usually stands on the left, the woman on the right; in parts of Italy – Capua in particular – this is often reversed. With almost all of the relevant pieces falling between 50 BC and AD 50 (the majority in the latter half), the reasons behind the popularity of this iconography have already been much debated; it will suffice to give only a quick outline of them here.21 Of great relevance must be the social legislation enacted by Augustus and in particular the promotion of marriage and childbearing under the lex Papia Poppaea of AD 9.22 Usually discussed in relation to the upper classes, the ius liberorum (the rights associated with having children) also offered profound benefits for libertini who married and bore four freeborn children (not all of whom had to survive). For men these included exemption from operae (duties owed to a former master); for women a release from tutela (legal guardianship).23 Following manumission, it is debatable how many libertini couples would have had sufficient time to produce the requisite number of offspring and so those who achieved the feat may have had extra cause to commemorate it on their tombstones.



T he R epresentatio n o f P hysical C o ntact

71

More fundamental than the social legislation, however, was the profound importance of marriage for freedmen. Upon enslavement, an individual’s natal relatives technically ceased to exist; only with eventual enfranchisement could the erstwhile slave construct a new family for him/herself. For the first time, s/ he was now able to contract a legal marriage, even if in many cases this may have involved the formalisation of a pre-existing but unofficial union. The grant of conubium – the right to marry – was understandably highly prized within this class and stood alongside the right to bear legitimate children.24 When placed in this context, it is hardly surprising to see both privileges advertised so heavily on public tombstones. Indeed, for the not insubstantial numbers of slaves who were freed unofficially, to become Junian Latins rather than full citizens, the desire to represent these themes may have been particularly acute.25 To upgrade

Figure 5.3  Relief of the Vettii. Rome, Museo Nazionale Romano, inv. 125830. Photo by Singer, Neg. D-DAI-Rom 1973.0752

72

Families in the R oman and L ate A ntiq u e R oman Wo rld

from their ambiguous status, and so avoid reversion to servile rank upon death, Junian Latins had to prove the fulfilment of two conditions: marriage and the production of a 1-year-old child. As Paul Weaver has noted, gaining formal recognition of this may not have been easy, generating an extra incentive to commemorate it for the relatively few families who succeeded. With freedmen facing restricted opportunities for social advancement, marriage was in fact one of the few achievements available for promotion in the sepulchral sphere.26 For the libertini of Rome and Italy, then, there were obvious reasons for the high regard in which marriage – as well as the dextrarum iunctio which so clearly symbolized it – were held. Unsurprisingly, this led to a permeation of sepulchral iconography, with very few alternative gestures being employed to suggest a connection between spouses. Although it might be quite right to infer that the dextrarum iunctio also reflected marital love, it cannot be seen as the raison d’être for its representation; as has been noted, the explicit purpose of marriage was procreation even if concordia may have been a reasonable expectation.27 Tombstones are not intimate ‘snapshots’ of family life; rather, they are public records which, for this social group at this point in time, were used largely to document social advancement. The relief of the Vettii from Rome is a case in point (Figure 5.3).28 Dedicated to a family of four, the inscription specifies that father L.  Vettius Alexander and daughter Vettia Polla were deceased; mother Vettia Hospita and other daughter Vettia Eleutheris were both living. Dominating the scene are the married couple, connected through the dextrarum iunctio and with their bodies turned towards one another; Hospita, whose head is veiled as a sign of her new-found respectability, also appears to fix her gaze on her husband. Between their shoulders, and in central position, is the bust of their deceased daughter Polla, depicted as if she were ‘floating’ in the air (a not uncommon arrangement).29 The portrait of the second girl Eleutheris is relegated to the very right of the scene, appearing behind her mother’s shoulder. Of course in the context of a tombstone one might reasonably expect the deceased child to be afforded greater prominence; but it may be no coincidence that this central girl was an ingenua (freeborn daughter), born after the manumission of her parents. The marginalized daughter, Eleutheris, was instead a libertina and so offered far fewer prospects of advancement for the family. This is not to deny that her parents may have held her in great affection but, for the purposes of funerary commemoration, it was the socially superior child who took precedence. A rather different situation emerges when attention turns to the Danube provinces, not least in terms of commissioner identity. Based on specific epigraphic references and/or the presence of saga (military cloaks), swords or daggers in the iconography, no less than 32 of the 40 tombstones from these areas can be attributed to soldiers and their families (and if the preservation of some other pieces were better, this total might rise still further).30 To assume that the same social circumstances motivated a freedman in Rome and a soldier in Pannonia to use common iconography is obviously problematic and



T he R epresentatio n o f P hysical C o ntact

73

it is noteworthy that the dextrarum iunctio so frequent in Italy now plays a comparatively minor role (appearing just six times). By far the more popular arrangement sees a hand being placed on or around the shoulder of a spouse (33 occasions). Natalie Kampen was one of the first to note this regional preference towards family embraces, linking it to the expression of affection and connection. Drawing comparisons with clipeus images on sarcophagi from Rome and parts of Gaul and Italy, she further observed that wives embrace their husbands, typically placing one arm around their shoulder and another on their arm or chest, whereas the men remain unresponsive.31 It is, however, important to recognize that this general rule does not hold true in the Danube provinces; here the iconography is rather more dynamic, with some scenes in which it is the men who initiate the contact and others where the gestures are mutual. As Table 5.1 shows, the picture varies even between the provinces themselves. Person Initiating Contact Wife

Husband

Mutual

Noricum

 8

 1

−

Pannonia Superior

 4

 5

−

Pannonia Inferior

 3

 4

−

Dacia

−

−

5

Total

15

10

5

^ excluding the dextrarum iunctio

Table 5.1  Physical contact in select Danube provinces

In Noricum the physical contact is made almost exclusively by women, as demonstrated by a further stone from Lauriacum (Figure 5.4).32 Commemorating a family of four, the wife and husband appear in the top row, dressed in tunics as well as a mantle and sagum respectively. Both hold gender-appropriate attributes, the woman with an apple and the man with a scroll. In front are their two children, dressed in garments which mimic those of the adults; they hold further objects (a second scroll for the boy, a bunch of grapes for the girl). In terms of contact, the woman places her left hand around the shoulder of her husband while he in turn rests his right hand on the shoulder on his daughter. Representing what some might view as a ‘typical’ provincial family scene, it is reproduced in countless examples (though with certain details changing from monument to monument, including the number of family members, the genders of the children and the adult-child contact relationship: some scenes have both adults or else just the woman placing hands on the children). More importantly, it conforms to the gender hierarchy which might be expected for married couples in funerary art: ‘the women embrace the men’, as Kampen observed, ‘while the men do nothing’.33 Yet the situation in Pannonia

74

Families in the R oman and L ate A ntiq u e R oman Wo rld

Figure 5.4  Stele for a family from Noricum. Enns, Museum Lauriacum, inv. R X 177. Photograph: O. Harl. (www.ubi-erat-lupa.org)

Superior and Inferior is much more equal, with a stele from Savaria (modern Szombathely) demonstrating how the ‘normal’ contact relationships could be completely reversed (Figure 5.5).34 Once again we see the wife and husband in the top row as well as two children (now both male) in the lower row; even the attributes held by the adults replicate those from the Lauriacum example. Now, though, it is the husband who places his right hand around the shoulder of his wife while she rests her hand on one of her sons. In this particular instance it might be tempting to point to the fact that the tombstone was commissioned by the wife and mother, Iulia Priscilla, as a possible explanation for this reversal, perhaps arguing for greater female control over the composition; since



T he R epresentatio n o f P hysical C o ntact

75

Figure 5.5 Stele of Iulia Priscilla and family. Szombathely, Savaria Múzeum, inv. 67.10.120. Photograph: O. Harl. (www.ubi-erat-lupa.org)

comparable scenes are commissioned by husbands, this appears to be a red herring.35 The regional variation in the Danube region becomes still more striking when the stones from Dacia are examined. Here there are, at least on my database, no examples on which just one spouse initiates the contact. Instead, husband and wife reciprocate gestures by placing their hands around each other’s shoulders, as seen in a rather awkward and poorly realized scene which adorns a medallion from Brucla (modern Aiud in Romania, Figure 5.6).36 The composition features a wife and husband (above) together with their son (below); the female is dressed in a tunic, mantle and local bonnet, the males

76

Families in the R oman and L ate A ntiq u e R oman Wo rld

Figure 5.6  Medallion for a family from Dacia. Bucharest, Muzeul National de Istorie a României, inv. 66446. Photo from www.arachne.uni-koeln.de, FA630–07

have tunics and paenulae (cloaks). For the most part carved fairly competently, the adults’ hands are a conspicuous exception; dramatically off scale, they are crude and anatomically suspect. (And this is not an isolated instance: other pieces from Dacia which attempt the same model also fail to succeed, albeit to different degrees).37 If one tries to replicate the pose adopted by this couple, it soon becomes clear that it is extremely unnatural and uncomfortable: this is not a gesture imitated from life, rather it is one created for the sake of representation and likely designed to emphasize the unity between the couple. Kampen saw the mutual embraces of the tetrarchs in their porphyry statue groups as being without parallel in funerary art; these examples, although more than a little removed in terms of location and date (with most attributed to the second century), would suggest otherwise.38 In light of the changing compositions and relative gender equality, the idea that the Pannonian and Dacian images reflect familial affection is, at least at face value, highly attractive. Gestures between the spouses seem more varied and convincing and, when the adults are supplemented by groups of children, many of whom are also embraced, the impression given is one of loving families.



T he R epresentatio n o f P hysical C o ntact

77

Before this can be accepted, though, some consideration must be given to three aspects: first, whether there are any alternative or additional explanations; second, the visual practicalities of the scenes; and third, why such iconography was employed only in certain parts of the western Empire. In relation to the first point, it is possible that some gestures were intended to alleviate identification difficulties. Of course, just as the dextrarum iunctio in Italy usually symbolized marriage but was sometimes utilized for other relationship types, so occasional deviations from the norm are seen here too.39 Yet with many of the Danube monuments portraying adults in addition to the married couple, including grandmothers, siblings and mature sons and daughters, recognitions can become confused and so signalling the married couple to the viewer may have been desirable. In particular, young boys and girls are typically represented as much smaller than the adults and are placed in a second row of portraits in front, while children who have reached adulthood tend to be of the same physical stature as their parents and are positioned next to them. As shown by a stone from Tata in Pannonia Superior, in these situations gestures and embraces can help to establish a family hierarchy (Figure 5.7).40 Commissioned by Caesia Digna, the large stele was dedicated to her veteran husband Valerius Saturninus, who died aged 50, and her soldier son Valerius Sabinus, who died after 25 years (three of which were spent in military service). The main scene

Figure 5.7 Stele for Valerius Saturninus and son (detail). Tata, Angolpark (English Gardens). Kuny Domokos Megyei Múzeum, Tata. Photo: O. Harl (www.ubi-erat-lupa. org)

78

Families in the R oman and L ate A ntiq u e R oman Wo rld

includes portraits of one woman and two men, the latter both dressed in saga and holding scrolls so as to reflect their occupation; both males are also of the same height and physical stature. To differentiate them, two iconographic tools are employed: husband Saturninus sports a beard to signify his seniority and it is around his shoulder that wife Digna places her arm. Another potential concern arises when the spatial practicalities of the iconography are considered. The gestures and embraces between spouses in the Danube provinces may at first appear rather more diverse than those employed in Italy, but on closer examination they too seem to conform to certain patterns. Most significantly, on each of the six occasions where the dextrarum iunctio is depicted, the adults do not have children in front of their chests/waists, sometimes because the portraits are full length and so the children are too small, in other instances because the images of the children are presented in separate areas to those of the adults.41 The far more common iconographic model uses half-length portraits, with the adults behind and the children in front. At the risk of stating the obvious, this second arrangement obscures the area in which the dextrarum iunctio would normally appear, as a relief from Flavia Solva (now Seggauberg) in Noricum will illustrate (Figure 5.8).42 Representing four adults and one child, the portraits are clearly divided into two groups, both of which share strong similarities. In each case the man sports a beard and is dressed in a toga with tunic; the woman wears a bonnet, tube dress and several pieces of jewellery. Both sets of spouses turn their heads towards one another, with the partner on the left placing his/her left hand around the other’s shoulder. There are, however, some important differences. In front of the first pair there is a child whose features are now badly damaged but on whose shoulders both parents place one of their hands. No such child appears in front of second pair; instead, they are connected through the dextrarum iunctio. Crucially, the gesture appears in exactly the same place

Figure 5.8 Relief for two couples from Noricum. Seggauberg, Schloss Seggau. Photograph: O. Harl. (www.ubi-erat-lupa.org)



T he R epresentatio n o f P hysical C o ntact

79

as the child does, suggesting its representation was governed by the spatial arrangement of the portraits. Furthermore, to return briefly to the Italian group of monuments, it was seen there that the dextrarum iunctio between couples was occasionally supplemented by an additional piece of physical touch, with one of the pair placing their left hand on the other’s shoulder. This same act is seen in both of these groups as well as on numerous other examples from the Danube provinces, suggesting that, when the full motif could not be represented, the ‘shorthand’ version sufficed. So instead of being natural, affectionate gestures per se, it is possible that representations of touch in this region are in fact highly symbolic of marriage. In Rome and Italy it was observed that time and status specific reasons contributed to the popularity of the dextrarum iunctio as a signal of social advancement and status. Against this background, and with the Danube provinces being the only other area in which embraces were employed, it seems prudent to ask if there might have been localized factors at play there too.43 A survey of the accompanying inscriptions produces soldiers and veterans from four different legions (I Adiutrix, II Adiutrix, II Italica and XIII Gemina, based, at various points, in Brigetio, Aquincum, Lauriacum and Apulum respectively). The most common rank is miles, although there is one eques; a number of distinctions or specialized roles are also cited, including cornicularius (administrative officer in charge of clerks), beneficiarius tribuni (aide to a tribune) and duplicarius (soldier on double pay). Unfortunately it is rather more difficult to determine the chronology of the tombstones; with legions often based in particular camps for considerable periods of time, only a handful of references – typically epithets added to the nomenclature of certain legions – are precise enough to facilitate fairly exact allocations. To determine dates for the vast majority, one is instead forced to rely on other criteria including hairstyles, dress and epigraphic style. This is far from ideal, especially as many of the stones are in fragmentary and heavily weathered conditions and it assumes a quick and uncomplicated transmission of imperial hairstyles from Rome to the provinces. Still further difficulties are presented by an additional iconographic factor: in the Danube region a significant number of women wear local ‘bonnets’ which obscure their hairstyles – one of the most dateable features – while being themselves far less time specific. As a consequence of these infelicities, many dates have to be relative and approximate, located mostly within 50-year windows. In spite of the dating limitations, interesting results emerge when the Danube tombstones are arranged (approximately) chronologically. Of the 36 which can be dated with any reasonable degree of confidence, one is Flavian, four fall within the Trajanic and Hadrianic periods, 7 can be assigned to the Antonine era, 19 belong to the Severan period and a further 5 are post Severan, the latest coming at the very end of the third century. Within this distribution there is a very obvious peak during the rule of the Severan emperors, especially in the first decades of the third century. To explain this, contemporary social

80

Families in the R oman and L ate A ntiq u e R oman Wo rld

legislation may hold the key. Traditionally attributed to Augustus, serving legionaries and auxiliaries were prohibited from forming legal marriages for the whole of the first and most of the second centuries; equestrian and senatorial commanders were exempt, as quite probably were high-ranking officers like centurions, but the vast majority of those enlisted in the army must have been affected. The result was not, of course, legions full of celibates: many soldiers flouted the ruling, having sexual relations with women and fathering children. That such unions gained legitimacy on discharge must have been a contributing factor and, as Maureen Carroll has argued, they must have been at least tolerated during a soldier’s career.44 Moreover, as there were no penalties in terms of discipline, Walter Scheidel is surely right to talk of ‘non-recognition’ rather than an outright ban as such.45 Nevertheless, the restrictions created some very significant problems for the families concerned, not least if a serving soldier died intestate. To alleviate them, successive emperors liberalized the legislation, with Hadrian granting some succession rights for children born to serving soldiers in AD 119 and, most significantly, Septimius Severus finally repealing the restrictions altogether in AD 197. As others have noted, it cannot be a coincidence that the rise of family images (and embraces) comes just after the restrictions on soldiers forming families were lifted, with proliferations in the first decades of the third century at several sites across the Danube region at which troops were stationed.46 It also seems telling that many of those erected before the changes enacted by Severus were dedicated by two groups of commissioners who were exempt from the marriage legislation: veterans (whose families had received recognition upon discharge) and high-ranking officials (never subject to the rules). It should be stressed that the link is by no means exclusive, with some of the earlier tombstones being commissioned by or for lower-ranking soldiers in active service.47 Likewise, veterans and senior commanders still put up tombstones for their families long after all soldiers had won their increased rights. Consequently, it is not the existence of the iconography which should be attributed to the Severan legislation, rather its sudden rise in the first half of the third century. And this idea becomes more compelling still if the gestures between spouses are seen, first and foremost, as representative of marital bonds – the privilege so long withheld from the majority of soldiers. To many modern eyes, images of family members embracing one another on tombstones are inevitably rather evocative and, in certain cases, touching. That many commissioners belonged to loving families and may have wanted to advertise as much is certainly possible, but alongside reasons of affection it must be recognized that the two main concentrations of relevant iconography belong to social groups with special reasons for advertising marital and parental relationships. The libertini of Italy and the soldiers of the Danube provinces may have been quite different in terms of background and location, and the tombstones they commissioned may have been, broadly speaking, separated by two centuries, but their underlying motivations are not dissimilar. Both groups



T he R epresentatio n o f P hysical C o ntact

81

were subject to long periods of time during which they were prevented from forming legal marriages or bearing legitimate children, even though unofficial unions and offspring were always possibilities. When their situations changed – through manumission for slaves and the Severan legislation for the military – freedmen and soldiers alike seem to have advertised their newly acquired rights via the public medium of burial, the former with reliefs positioned adjacent to roads, the latter with grand and visible tombstones of considerable size (the largest being some 3.25 metres in height). These monuments were meant to be seen and so including images of embracing couples may have been a simple but effective way to communicate familial connections and the newly won right of conubium.

Notes * I would like to thank the organizers of the 5th international Arachne Conference for their support and encouragement as well as the numerous participants who offered extremely useful comments and suggestions on my paper. I also wish to extend my gratitude to Christian Laes, Peter Stewart and Josephine Quinn for their invaluable feedback on the doctoral thesis in which some of these ideas were discussed. Needless to say, any mistakes or oversights remain my own. Further thanks are due to those who provided photographs and permissions for publication: Daria Lanzuolo at the DAI in Rome; Marian Keuler and Andreas Geißler from the Arachne Datenbank; Péter Kiss at the museum in Szombathely; Reinhardt Harreither from the museum in Enns; and, above all, Ortolf Harl whose Ubi Erat Lupa Datenbank is a wonderfully rich resource on which thousands of pieces of Roman sculpture are comprehensively analysed and photographed. 1 See in particular Purcell, 1987, p. 25. 2 Petersen, 2006, esp. pp. 6–10 and 84–87, criticizes previous scholars for seeing the protagonist as unfairly typical of all libertini and for ‘mining’ the description of his monument to understand ancient motivations relating to funerary practices. 3 Whitehead, 1993, offers a comprehensive survey of the Trimalchian motifs attested in the archaeological record. 4 ‘Cicaronem meum’ has been variously translated as ‘son’ or ‘pet slave’. But across the western empire there are examples in which non-biological children, including vernae (home-born slaves), delicia (‘pet’ slaves), alumni (foster-children) and servi (slaves), seem to act as surrogates, assuming the same poses and roles as filii/filiae (sons/daughters). 5 Ulp., Dig. II.7.2.6. It might also be noted that Trimalchio’s threat to remove Fortunata’s image from his tombstone was sometimes realized on extant monuments. 6 Zanker, 1975; Kleiner, 1987; Kockel, 1993 and Rawson, 2003. 7 Of these, special mention should be made of the following: Janet Huskinson’s recent articles on children in Roman funerary art; Jeannine Diddle Uzzi’s book on imperial monuments; Michele George on sepulchral images in Italy and Cisalpine Gaul; Mary Boatwright on Pannonian tombstones; Annika Backe-Dahmen on child portraits on tombstones from Rome; and, mostly recently, Natalie Kampen’s book on family images in public art. 8 A much more substantial study, Portraits of Children on Roman Funerary Monuments, is currently in preparation for Cambridge University Press. 9 Kampen, 2009, pp. 110–114. 10 As noted by Huskinson, 2005, p. 93. 11 The exception appears in the north frieze, where a man places his hand on the head of the girl who may be Julia or Agrippina. 12 Following the identifications of Uzzi, 2005, pp.  143–144 and 146–154. She uses the term

82

Families in the R oman and L ate A ntiq u e R oman Wo rld

‘gestures of intimacy’ to describe the physical contact, suggesting that they might signal ‘affection or responsibility’. 13 Uzzi, 2005, esp. pp. 64–66 (gender divisions) and 125–126 (age divisions). 14 Enns, Museum Lauriacum, inv. R X 176. CSIR Österreich III, 2, n. 38. Recently discussed by Kampen, 2009, p. 114. 15 Boatwright, 2005, esp. pp.  307–313, has analysed such iconography on Pannonian pieces, although the corpus in question was relatively small. She suggests at pp. 317–318 that nuclear imagery in Pannonia had elevated importance due to the uncertainty of day-to-day existence in a military province. 16 Sarcophagi are, however, excluded. 17 St Veit an der Glan, Pfarrkirche, west wall. CSIR Österreich II, 2, n. 150. 18 Kampen, 2009, p.  114. She later notes that family imagery itself is also subject to regional variation. 19 For recent comment on the dextrarum iunctio, Carroll, 2006, p. 146 and D’Ambra, 2007, p. 75. 20 As observed by Kockel, 1993, p. 54 (with examples). 21 For more detailed analysis, see George, 2001, pp.  186–187; George, 2005, pp.  38–52; BackeDahmen, 2006, pp. 77–79 and Kampen, 2009, pp. 11–12. 22 As noted by many, and most recently by Huskinson, 2005, pp.  92–93, representations of children predate Augustus but become more frequent due to his emphasis on family continuity. 23 On the ius liberorum, Rawson, 2003, pp. 6–7. She suggests a possible link with the growth in child imagery. 24 Carroll, 2006, p. 189 on conubium. 25 For detailed consideration of Junian Latins, see especially Weaver, 1991 and 1997. 26 Mouritsen, 2005, 55–57, on libertini advertising in the necropolis due to a lack of alternative arenas. 27 Harlow and Laurence, 2002, pp. 58–59 and Rawson, 2003, p. 95 on the aims of marriage. 28 Rome, Museo Nazionale Romano, Terme di Diocleziano, inv. 125830. Kockel, 1993, n. C3. 29 For consideration of the differing spatial arrangements, Huskinson, 2007, pp. 326–327. 30 The importance of family imagery for soldiers in this area was noted by Saller and Shaw, 1984, 141. 31 Kampen, 2009, pp. 114–118. 32 Enns, Museum Lauriacum, inv. R X 177. Kremer, 2001, p. 125, n. 88. 33 Kampen, 2009, p. 118. 34 Szombathely, Savaria Múzeum, inv. 67.10.120. RIU 1, n. 54. 35 See, for example, the stele for Iulia Cupita, commissioned by her husband, mother and daughter, from Poetovia (modern Ptuj) and now in the Pokrajinski Muzej (without inventory number). AE, 1986, p. 204, n. 570. 36 Bucharest, Muzeul National de Istorie a României, inv. 66446. Ţeposu Marinescu 1982, p. 194, n. 25. 37 Compare the aedicula from Micia (modern Veţel), now at Deva, Muzeul Civilizatiei Dacice si Romane, inv. 3528. Ţeposu Marinescu 1982, p. 198, n. 1. 38 Kampen, 2009, p. 118. 39 For discussion see Kockel, 1993, pp.  49–50. An example is offered by a stele from Intercisa (modern Dunaújváros in Hungary) set up by soldier Germanius Valens (Budapest, Magyar Nemzeti Múzeum, inv. 22.1905.22l; RIU 5, n. 1161). The central woman in the upper row, on whose shoulders both surrounding adults place a hand, is probably wife Aurelia Baracha. She is likely flanked by husband Valens to the right and his mother Immosta to the left, the contact therefore representing both a spousal and an in-law link. 40 Tata, Angolpark (‘English Gardens’), Artificial Ruins. RIU 3, n. 694 41 For an example of the former, see the stone from the Pfarrkirche at Oberdolling: CSIR Deutschland I, 1, n. 507; for the latter, the ash chest now at the Salzburg Museum, inv. 166/69: CSIR Österreich III, 1, n. 72. 42 Seggauberg, Schloss Seggau, Arkadengang. Hainzmann and Pochmarski, 1994, n. 100. 43 The possibility of differing regional motivations was discussed by Kampen, 2009, pp. 12–13. 44 Carroll, 2002, p. 105.



T he R epresentatio n o f P hysical C o ntact

83

45 Scheidel, 2005, pp. 2–3, who summarizes the legislative changes made by successive emperors. 46 A link noted by Boatwright, 2005, p. 295 and Carroll, 2006, p. 188. 47 An example is offered by a damaged stele from Solva (now Esztergom) in Pannonia Superior, dated to 70–90 AD, which was dedicated to father Iucundus by son Asper, a member of the ala I Hispanorum Auriana. The incomplete inscription makes it difficult to identify the portraits but, whether the male portrait was of Asper or Iucundus, neither could have contracted a legal marriage, the former because he was serving in an auxiliary unit, the latter as his name and patrimony show that he lacked citizenship. Esztergom, Esztergomi Vármúzeum, inv. 98.6.1. AE, 1997, n. 1261.

Bibliography Backe-Dahmen, A. (2006), Innocentissima Aetas: Römische Kindheit im SpiegelLiterarischer, Rechtlicher und Archäologischer Quellen des 1. bis 4. Jahrhunderts n. Chr., Mainz am Rhein: Philipp von Zabern. —(2008), Die Welt der Kinder in der Antike, Mainz am Rhein: Philipp von Zabern. Boatwright, M. T. (2005), ‘Children and parents on the tombstones of Pannonia’, in George, M. (ed.), The Roman Family in the Empire: Rome, Italy and Beyond, Oxford: Oxford University Press, pp. 287–318. Carroll, M. (2002), Romans, Celts & Germans. The German Provinces of Rome, Shroud: Tempus. —(2006), Spirits of the Dead: Roman Funerary Commemoration in Western Europe, Oxford: Oxford University Press. D’Ambra, E. (2007), Roman Women, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. George, M. (2001), ‘A Roman funerary monument with a mother and daughter’, in Dixon, S. (ed.), Childhood, Class and Kin in the Roman World, London: Routledge, pp. 178–189. —(2005), ‘Family imagery and family values in Roman Italy’, in George, M. (ed.), The Roman Family in the Empire: Rome, Italy and Beyond, Oxford: Oxford University Press, pp. 37–66. Hainzmann, M. and Pochmarski, E. (1994), Die Römerzeitlichen Inschriften und Reliefs von Schloß Seggau bei Leibnitz, Graz: Leykam. Harlow, M. and Laurence, R. (2002), Growing Up and Growing Old in Ancient Rome: A Life Course Approach, London and New York: Routledge. Huskinson, J. (2005), ‘Disappearing children? Children in Roman funerary art of the firstto fourth century AD’, in Mustakallio, K., Hanska, J., Sainio, H.-L. and Vuolanto, V. (eds), Hoping for Continuity: Childhood, Education and Death in Antiquity and the Middle Ages, Rome: Institutum Romanum Finlandiae, pp. 91–103. —(2007), ‘Constructing childhood on Roman funerary memorials’, in Cohen, A. and Rutter, J. B (eds), Constructions of Childhood in Ancient Greece and Italy, Princeton: The American School of Classical Studies at Athens, pp. 323–338.

84

Families in the R oman and L ate A ntiq u e R oman Wo rld

Kampen, N. (2009), Family Fictions in Roman Art, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Kleiner, D. E. E. (1987), Roman Imperial Funerary Altars with Portraits, Rome: Giorgio Bretschneider Editore. Kockel, V. (1993), Porträtreliefs Stadtrömischer Grabbauten, Mainz am Rhein: Philipp von Zabern. Kremer, G. (2001), Antike Grabbauten in Noricum, Vienna: Österreichisches Archäologisches Institut. Mouritsen, H. (2005), ‘Freedmen and decurions: epitaphs and social history in imperial Italy’, JRS, 95, 38–63. Petersen, L. H. (2006), The Freedman in Roman Art and Art History, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Purcell, N. (1987), ‘Tomb and suburb’, in Von Hesberg, H. and Zanker, P. (eds), Römische Gräberstraßen, Munich: Bayerischen Akademie der Wissenschaften, pp. 25–41. Rawson, B. (1997), ‘The iconography of Roman childhood’, in Rawson, B. and Weaver, P. (eds), The Roman Family in Italy: Status, Sentiment, Space, Oxford: Clarendon Press, pp. 205–238. —(2001), ‘Children as cultural symbols’, in Dixon, S. (ed.), Childhood, Class and Kin in the Roman World, London: Routledge, pp. 21–42. —(2003), Children and Childhood in Roman Italy, Oxford: Oxford University Press. Saller, R. P. and Shaw, B. D. (1984), ‘Tombstones and Roman family relations in the principate: civilians, soldiers and slaves’, JRS, 74, 124–156. Scheidel, W. (2005), ‘Marriage, families, and survival in the Roman imperial army: demographic aspects’, Princeton/Stanford Working Papers in Classics, Version 1.0: 1–15. www.princeton.edu/~pswpc /pdfs/scheidel/110509.pdf (Accessed August 2009). Ţeposu Marinescu, L. (1982), Funerary Monuments in Dacia Superior and Dacia Porolissensis, Oxford: Archaeopress, n. 128. Uzzi, J. D. (2005), Children in the Visual Arts of Imperial Rome, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Weaver, P. R. C. (1991), ‘Children of Junian Latins’, in Rawson, B. and Weaver, P.(eds), The Roman Family in Italy: Status, Sentiment, Space, Oxford: Clarendon Press, pp. 55–72. —(1997), ‘Children of freedmen (and freedwomen)’, in Rawson, B. (ed.), Marriage, Divorce and Children in Ancient Rome, Oxford: Clarendon Press, pp. 166–190. Whitehead, J. (1993), ‘The cena Trimalchionis and the biographical narration in Roman middle-class art’, in Holliday, P. J. (ed.), Narrative and Event in Ancient Art, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, pp. 299–326. Zanker, P. (1975), ‘Grabreliefs römischer Freigelassener’, JDAI, 90, 267–315.

6

Nieces and Nephews: An Epigraphic Approach* Sabine Armani In an article published 15 years ago, M.  Bettini1 assessed collateral kinship terminology. He concluded that, in Rome, sobrini were children of cousins, whatever their types and whatever way the relationship had been established. Sobrinus was supposed, therefore, to have been an undifferentiated generic term, referring to kinship independently of the degree involved. A. C. Bush is less definite: ‘The paucity of evidence for the usages of consobrinus, consobrina, is nothing compared to the lack of proof for the usages of sobrinus, sobrina’.2 In previous studies, I have tried to clarify Bush’s remark by showing that the term, at least in its epigraphic uses, designated a nephew.3 This paper will present a lexical and chronological evaluation of this specific nephew kinship terminology in the west (including Rome, Italy and the western provinces), before drawing any conclusion about the permanence of its use in the Empire.4

The Expression of the Degree of Kinship: Nephew, Niece The Syntagm filius, -a fratris/sororis Tradition usually associates the genealogical position of nephew or niece with the expression filius, -a fratris or filius, -a sororis, which clearly points up the difference between the Romance languages and Latin which makes use of mixed terms for parentality: either undifferentiated, to designate direct lineage (auus, auia, nepos, neptis), or by classifying collateral descent (patruus, amita for uncle and aunt on the father’s side, and auunculus, matertera for the mother’s side). Indeed, these expressions are widely certified in literary sources, and equally recognized in epigraphic material.5 Just within the limits of the west, both expressions can be found up to 37 times.6 The syntagm filius, -a fratris is attested four times in Rome and Italy. In the western provinces, only two sons or daughters of brothers can be identified: near Fréjus, the attested nephew, L. Octauius bore the same gentilicium as his paternal uncle, the author of the epitaph.7 This inscription belongs to an early period not exceeding the rule of Claudius, as the absence of surname for both men shows, whereas the text mentioning two daughters of a brother, discovered in Mauretania Caesariensis, is of a much later period.8 In the western provinces, Africa provides the greatest

86

Families in the R oman and L ate A ntiq u e R oman Wo rld

example of the expression meaning nephew or niece, particularly filius, -a sororis, 12 of which have been counted in Numidia and Africa Proconsularis.9 This result must be moderated by the fact that the latter is used in a series of eight imperial dedications to Gordian III, which enables us to date the use of these formulae up to the first half of the third century AD.10 The formulae on the other four inscriptions reinforce this late chronology by the invocation to the Dii Manes or the explicit citing of the reigning emperors.11 In the Italian Peninsula, we can count 18 examples of this degree of kinship between the reign of Claudius or Nero and the third century.12 Elsewhere, in the three Gauls, Germanies, Britain or the Spains, the use of this expression is rare.13 Nevertheless, parental relationship was expressed, because the avuncular relation, the paternal uncle relation (patruus) or the aunt relationship (both paternal and maternal) are quite attested.14 In these territories, the awkward formula fillius, -a fratris, filius, -a sororis, might have been replaced by a proper term which was misused because it did not correspond to the traditional degree of kinship for which it was customarily used. This is the case of nepos (neptis or nepta feminine), which normally designated grandson (or granddaughter) and which, in consequence, was often associated with auus or to auia (grand-father or grand-mother) and which, on certain inscriptions, clearly takes on the meaning of nephew or niece, as will be developed just below. The use of nepos15 In 1998 Mireille Corbier produced a list of the gradual changes on the meaning of nepos which, when it appeared in the context of double parentality undoubtedly meant nephew.16 In the western provinces, a text from Germany binds a neptia to her paternal uncle (patruus).17 Likewise, in the Three Gauls, at Lyon, an epitaph associates a nepos with his auunculus.18 In Mauretania Caesariensis, the use of nepos can be ambivalent as in the dedications in honour of Gordian III.  The expression nepos Gordianorum applied to the emperor has maybe a double role, as he is simultaneously the grandson of Gordian I and the nephew (son of the sister) of Gordian II, unless the word was simply used in the sense of offspring, descendant of the Gordians.19 In Rome and Italy, there are a few rare examples of nepos used in the sense of nephew, although the most common use designates grandson or granddaughter.20 On the other hand, in Hispania, nepos seems to be kept only for ascending and descending relationships between grandparents and grandchildren. In this area, nepos and its feminine versions (neptis or nepota) are often associated to the preceding generation, that of their immediate parents, when the grandparents are not precisely referred to, as Table 1 clearly suggests.



N ieces and N ephews : A n E pigraphic A ppr oach

references

relationships relatives quoted in the between relatives inscription

epithets

CIL, II, 389 (Conimbriga)

neptis

The deceased neptis bears the same nomen as the woman, author of the epitaph.

neptis piissuma: an epithet characterizing relations between ascendants and descendants (see Nielsen, H. S., 1997).

CIL, II, 1332-1333 (Jimena de la Frontera, conuentus Gaditanus)

nepos –auus

Grandson by the son or the daughter. Polyonymous.

CIL, II, 2482 (Aquae Flauiae)

filia [et] nepotes

The term nepotes is integrated into a genealogy.

87

nurus et CIL, II, 2923 nepos (Asa, conuentus Caesaraugustanus)

The nepos bears the same tria nomina as the deceased who seems to be the grandfather.

CIL, II, 3207 (Valeria)

nepos

The nepos bears the same nomen as the dedicant.

CIL, II, 3669 (Palma)

nepos

piissimus nepos: an epithet characterizing relations between ascendants and descendants (see above).

CIL, II, 4998 (Olisipo)

nepos

nepos pius: an epithet characterizing relations between ascendants and descendants (see above).

CIL, II, 5659 (Duas filia et nepos Egrejas, conuentus Asturum)

Mother and son bear the same nomen as the man who is surely the grandfather and the father.

nepos pientissimus: an epithet characterizing relations between ascendants and descendants (see above).

88

Families in the R oman and L ate A ntiq u e R oman Wo rld

references

relationships relatives quoted in the between relatives inscription

CIL, II2/5, 162 (Tucci)

fil(ius) et nep(os)

The term nepos is integrated into a genealogy.

CIL, II2/5, 294 (Cisimbrium)

neptis

Cognomen of the neptis built on nomen of the grandmother or the grandfather. (see below)

CIL, II2/5, 296 (Cisimbrium)

neptis

Cognomen of the neptis built on nomen of the grandmother or the grandfather.

CIL, II2/5, 718 (Vlisi)

nepos

Homonymous of the deceased. Fulfilment of a pollicitatio.

CIL, II2/5, 802 (Singili Barbum)

nepos

The nepos bears the same nomen as the woman honoured, surely his grandmother. Relation of quasi-filiation.

CIL, II2/5, 803 (Singili Barbum)

neptis

The neptis bears the same nomen as the other woman honoured, surely her grandmother. Relation of quasi-filiation.

CIL, II2/5, 991a (Herrera, conuentus Astgitanus)

nepos

CIL, II2/5, 1180 (Astigi)

pater, fil(ius) et nep(os)

Paternal grandfather and grandson bear the same tria nomina.

CIL, II2/7, 562 (Corduba)

nepos [--m]ater

The term nepos is integrated into a genealogy.

epithets

pia in nepotem: an epithet characterizing relations between ascendants and descendants (see above).



N ieces and N ephews : A n E pigraphic A ppr oach

references

relationships relatives quoted in the between relatives inscription

CIL, II2/14, 49 (Valencia)

filius, nurus et nepotes

cum filia et AE, 1968, 234 nepote = IRPLE 10 (Asturica Augusta)

89

epithets

The surviving grandfather pays homage to his deceased family members: son, daughter-in-law and grandchildren. The term nepos is integrated into a genealogy.

HEp, 4, 355 (Santiago de Compostela)

neptis

The deceased neptis bore the same cognomen that the dedicatrix.

HEp, 4, 905 (Valdeverdeja, Toledo, conuentus Emeritensis)

f(ilius) et n(epos) ( ?)

A surviving woman pays homage to her son and grandson (son of another son or of a daughter).

HEp, 12, 606 Rebordãos, Bragança)

auia – neptis

A grandmother pays homage to her granddaughter.

HEp, 13, 938 (ciuitas Igaeditanorum)

filius – nepos

The term nepos is integrated into a genealogy: the mother pays homage to his son and his grandson.

HEp, 15, 307 bc (Vigo)

filius – nepos

The term nepos is integrated into a genealogy: the mother pays homage to his son and his grandson.

ILER 4762 (Holguera, conuentus Emeritensis)

nepos

neptis pi(entissima): an epithet characterizing relations between ascendants and descendants (see above).

nepos p(iissimus): an epithet characterizing relations between ascendants and descendants (see above).

90

Families in the R oman and L ate A ntiq u e R oman Wo rld

references

relationships relatives quoted in the between relatives inscription

IRC, IV, 123 (Barcelona)

filius et nepos Father and son pay homage to, respectively, their mother and grandmother.

IRCP 80 (Balsa)

nepos

The term is integrated into a genealogy.

IRCP, 137 (Aljustrel)

uir f(ilius), n(epos)

The surviving mother pays homage to her deceased husband, son and grandson. All three men bear the same praenomen and nomen.

IRCP, 219 (Caetobriga)

nepos-auia

The nepos pays homage to his grandmother.

IRPLE 177

nepos

RIT 378 (Tarragona)

neptis

The neptis bears the same nomen as the deceased man.

BRANDÃO D. P., 1972 (no. III).

pater cum nepote

Father and son pay homage to their respective father and grandfather. The grandson bears the same cognomen that his grandfather.

epithets

auia pientissima: an epithet characterizing relations between ascendants and descendants (see above).

Pientissumus [et] reuerentissu[mus] deside[rantissumus: epithets characterizing relations between ascendants and descendants (see above).



N ieces and N ephews : A n E pigraphic A ppr oach

references

relationships relatives quoted in the between relatives inscription

ENCARNAÇÃO (d’), J., 1986.

filia et nep(o)s

91

epithets

The surviving grandmother pays homage to her deceased daughter and granddaughter and bears the same name (Sunua) as the latter.

Table 6.1  Some examples of the use of nepos and its derivates in Hispania in a familial context

It should also be noted that in the Iberian provinces, unlike elsewhere, the expression filius, -a sororis is strangely absent, and specific words designate nephew and niece: sobrinus, sobrina.

Sobrinus -a Meaning Nephew and Niece in Hispania In the Iberian Peninsula, the term sobrinus or sobrina appears on 14 inscriptions, making it more common here than anywhere in the Empire.21 Hispania Citerior accounts for six testimonies: inland (two occurrences in Astorga and one in the Avila region) and on the eastern coast (in Cartagena, in Oliva near Alicante, in Barcelona);22 six examples are found in Lusitania, four in the capital, Mérida, and two on Évora.23 Finally, there are two examples in the province of Baetica, one in the present day province of Badajoz, in Magacela under the jurisdiction of conventus Cordubensis and one case in Hispalis (now Seville).24 In former publications, I have explained why the appropriate translation of sobrinus, -a was nephew and niece, rather than ‘second cousins’, which was the usual meaning of the word.25 To briefly sum up the main arguments: the meaning ‘nephew’ can be deduced from the terms used to describe his position in the listing and indeed, sobrinus or sobrina are most often used in a close parental relationship: in Évora, it is associated with the sister of the deceased; in Mérida, in M.  Argentarius Achaicus’ epitaph, sobrinus is clearly expressed by a preceding symmetrical inscription identifying Argentaria Verana, the dedicatrix, as the matertera (the maternal aunt); in Astorga, and also in Cartagena, sobrinus is mentioned next to the dedicator’s sisters; in Barcelona, as in P. Sertorius Niger’s epitaph of Mérida, sobrinus is mentioned with the close relatives: the mother, the wife, the children and the dedicator’s sister on the one hand; the father, the wife and the sister, on the other hand; finally, in Oliva, the family group is enlarged: the memory of Pompeius Nicostratos, the sobrinus, was honoured as well as the memory of his mother and his father.

92

Families in the R oman and L ate A ntiq u e R oman Wo rld

In all these cases, the parental enumeration helps define the genealogical position of sobrinus in the family group. This presentation is particularly valuable in the last three cases mentioned because they list the different degrees of kinship according to the classical order: first the primary group of family members when they are mentioned, which can comprise the immediate ascendants and descendants of the dedicator, followed by the collateral members with the sister and the nephew. In the epigraphic habit, at least, sobrinus therefore designates the nephew and more precisely the child of the sister. It is therefore the equivalent of the expression filius, -a sororis, in parallel with its etymological meaning, which derives from soror, a point noted by E. Benvéniste.26 Two observations taken from epigraphy illustrate this linguistic heritage. First, in usual epigraphic practice, the word is often associated with soror, either when the degree of kinship is clearly expressed or because the fraternal bond is suggested, when sobrinus is employed symmetrically with matertera (the maternal aunt).27 On the other hand, in the civic context, it can be noted that the sobrinus, alone or with a parental expression, never has the same family name as the parent with whom he is associated, unless he is his freedman or the freedman of the same patronus. For, if the Roman rules of naming are normally applied, in the case of a legal union, the family name is transmitted from father to children – at least for boys. Accordingly, only the uncles and aunts on the paternal side (the patruus and the amita) and the respective nephews will bear the paternal family name. And on the maternal side, the uncle (auunculus), the aunt (matertera) and the nephew will most likely bear a different family name (see Table 6.2).

Sobrinus in Africa, Rome and Italy The success of sobrinus, -a, in Hispania is such that it has become part of the Iberian languages, as sobrino, -a in Spanish and sobrinho, -a in Portuguese, but this must not be taken as the manifestation of regionalism. In the western provinces, sobrinus is rarely employed: in Africa, for instance, the word is used only once, in Volubilis, in Mauretania Tingitana.28 In Rome and Italy it appears in similar uses to Hispania (see Table 6.2), where it figures near a close relative like the sister of the dedicator after whom it is frequently placed.29 This is the case in an inscription from Rome where the parental order is inverted, going from the farthest – the sobrinus – to the closest – the spouse; and also, in the collective epitaph from Aquileia written by the dedicator during his lifetime, in which the sobrina, the latter’s niece, is mentioned in an almost conventional order, after the spouse, the parents, the grandmother (maybe paternal), the children, and the brother and the sister of the dedicator.30 The presence of such an epigraphic series shows that sobrinus meaning nephew was accepted in Italy before being used in Hispania. So the large amount of evidence in favour of the



N ieces and N ephews : A n E pigraphic A ppr oach

93

Iberian Peninsula cannot be interpreted as the adaptation of Latin vocabulary to local realities. In consequence, it seems difficult to admit that the great number of examples found in Spain is purely due to chance. On the contrary, a better understanding of the integration of Hispania and of the early period of its conquest seems to be a more plausible explanation, likely to provide a better understanding of this lexical curiosity. No.

Identity of the symmetrical relative Identity of the sobrinus, -a of sobrinus, -a

47

M. Apusceius M. lib. Hermaphilus

A]nicius M. f. Daphnicus

48

D. Aur(elius) Epipodius Arriani

Aurelius [---] (?)

49

?

[…]iae Cn. f. […]e sobrin(ae)

50

Oriens

[---]nus

51

C. Otacidius Pisidinus

M. Pontius Marcellus

52

C. Clepius T. f. P[u]p(inia) Senecio

Rubria Q[u]erqui f. Tertia

53

M. Curius Sp. f. Marcellus

Curia M. f. Vesta

54

Bolanius Sabinus Syrofoenix

Ausius Ausonius

55

Calpurnia Elanis

Anonymous

56

Domitius Senecio

– Caesia Cloutai f. – Coporinus Copori f.

57

Caecilia Vacemq(um) Reburri f. (?)

T. Sempronius Reburr[us]

58

[- Helui]us Pollio

Anonymous

59

Anonymous

G. Pom[pe]ius Nicostratus

60

P. Acilius Rufus

P. Fabius Modestus Rufionis f.

61

Argentar(ia) Verana

M. Argentarius Achaicus

62

P. Sertorius Niger

M. Didius Postumus

63

[P]ublicia Oliuola

Vibia Asclepiace

64

Anonymous

– Vict(or) Victulla – Ter(tullus) Nouelle (sic) [s(eruus)]

65

C. [---V]enustus | V[----] Fabul[---] ?

L. Auilius Succes[sus]

66

L. C(aecilius) Gallio

M. Ful(uius ?) Caecilianus

67

T. Calleus Marcianus

Cas(sia) Marcella

68

[Q. Co]rnelius Sp. f. Sec[undus]

L. Mae[uius] Rogatus

Table 6.2  Names of the sobrinus, -a and of his (her) relatives

94

Families in the R oman and L ate A ntiq u e R oman Wo rld

The persistence in Hispania of Traditional Republican Vocabulary As early as 218 BC, Rome first entered the Hispanic Peninsula to come to the rescue of Saguntum, besieged by Hannibal’s troops, and to honour the binding treaty between both cities. In 206 BC, Italica (today’s Santiponce, near Seville) was established to host the veterans of Scipio Africanus. Although the conquest was gradual, Hispania was, after Sicily, the first western region to be conquered and as such, it is not unrealistic to posit that under the Empire these territories retained an archaic vocabulary dating from the Republic, which gradually became obsolete in other parts of the empire where the term was used; hence its absence in areas conquered later. Parallels exist: the work of M. Christol and P. Le Roux has confirmed that the word aera, used to count the years of service in the army, is specific to Hispania, and found solely in the epitaphs of the soldiers who served there wherever they are buried.31 In the same way, Hispania could have become the sanctuary of ancient Latin vocabulary dating back to the early years of the conquest, which was no longer used elsewhere, and for that reason was unknown in more recently conquered western territories. From this point of view, it is relevant to state that the chronological occurrences of sobrinus began as early as the end of the first century BC and beginning of the first century AD, as found in the inscriptions from Barcelona, Cartagena, Astorga and Magacela contemporary of those from Rome, Larinum, Cittanova and Aquileia already mentioned. The syntagm filius, -a sororis may finally have supplanted the word sobrinus symmetrically with the composed expression filius, -a fratris designating the son or the daughter of the brother, a parental degree lacking a specific term. It should also be noted that the circumlocutions filius, -a sororis appeared at a later period in the other provinces. Literary sources strengthen the case for the early appearance of the term sobrinus dating back to the Republic: for instance, examples can be found in a play of Plautus, two farces written by Terence and in Cicero.32 There is another argument – not incompatible with the previous one – produced by the study of the social and geographical background of the families implied in a relation with a sobrinus, which could explain the success of the term. In Rome, in Italy, in Africa, Greek onomastics often betrayed the servile origins of an important part of the population implied in a relation with a sobrinus or a sobrina and also the use of the formula Spuri filius, -a points out an illegitimate birth.33 In Larinum, Oriens, a public slave, whose status normally deprived him of all family relations, drew up the epitaph of his sobrinus.34 In the Iberian provinces, the situation is almost identical: there also, the freed or servile elements outnumber the others. Six testimonies surely come from freed or slave families. Mérida surpasses all the other as all the inscriptions mentioning a sobrinus concern not free born.35



N ieces and N ephews : A n E pigraphic A ppr oach

95

One must underline the fact that the slave and freed population were by relation the closest to the Roman or Romanized elites. These groups could have become the heirs of a number of Republican traditions acquired from their masters or patrons originating from Italy.36 The particular success of sobrinus, -a among this social group could be the result of two factors: the need for recognition provided by the evocation of collateral parental ties, which gave them the social visibility they lacked; and the need to make up for the absence of legitimate ancestors. Both these factors would explain the early use – and its permanence – of an ancient parental vocabulary.37 The map of the western use of the term underlines the fact that sobrinus, -a was in use in the most densely urbanized areas in which the descendants of Italian immigrants had settled. Besides Rome and Italy, where this formula appears only among slaves or freedmen of the first or second generation, it is also in highly concentrated zones in Hispania, around administrative centres and in Roman cities: Barcelona, Dianium (which had the modern Oliva under its jurisdiction), Cartagena, Asturica Augusta, Mérida and Évora. In this case, the presence of a sobrinus in the Roman municipium of Volubilis is not surprising. As a matter of fact, there could be a correlation between the importance of the civic element and the use of this term. As far as the Hispanic provinces are concerned, the study of the family names of different relatives (Acilius/Fabius; Argentarius, -a; Auilius; Caecilius (?)/Fuluius (?); Callaeus/Caesia; Calpurnia; Cornelius/ Maeuius; Domitius; [Helui]us (?); Sertorius/Didius; Pompeius) is relevant too: they belong to the ancient Latin onomastics and they were transmitted from generation to generation along with social behaviour.38

Conclusion The Latin language disposed of several different expressions designating nephew and niece, used alone or simultaneously. The brother or daughter’s son was simply called filius or filia fratris. A specific word for this degree of kinship did not exist. The sister’s children seemed to be named sobrinus, -a, under the Republic before the term was replaced by the syntagm filius, -a sororis, at least outside the Iberian Peninsula. This very explicit expression – symmetrical with son of the brother – was certainly the reason for the success and the persistence in time of filius, -a sororis, but maybe also because sobrinus had lost its original meaning (nephew) for second cousin, being linked to consobrinus – the first cousin. In a wider perspective, the study of the occurrence of sobrinus, particularly present in the Iberian Peninsula or in nearby provinces such as Mauretania tingitana, and among the freed population in contact with the Romanized elites, has contributed a more global view of this period. By replacing family relationships in historical and spatial dynamics and taking out the analysis of the term sobrinus from a purely lexical approach, this study also shows that the presence

96

Families in the R oman and L ate A ntiq u e R oman Wo rld

of such a word could inform us about early ties between Italy and Hispania, underlining their rapid cultural integration.

Appendices Appendix 1: Evidence of filius, -a fratris, filius, -a sororis in the Roman west filius, -a fratris Rome  1)

 2)



CIL, VI, 3740 = 31114; AE, 2001, 472 [Pro salute e]t reditu III | [MMM. Aurel]iorum ( ?) Sauini Sen(ioris) | [et Sabini fil(iastri ?)] et Sabiniani fili(i) | [frat(ris) et Aureli]ae ( ?) Iustinae fil[iae]. Date: third century AD because of the onomastics and the paleography. Restitutions are proposed by comparison with CIL, VI, 2829 = 32596 and add. p. 3339, and CIL, VI, 32880 which inform us about the same family. CIL, VI, 29088; AE, 1992, 92 A. Vitellius A. l. Saluius | sibi et | A. Vitellio Celeri f. uixit a(nnos) XX | Vitelliae A. l. Meroe conlibert(ae) | u(iuit) C. Trolio | (mulieris) l(iberto) Tertio fratri suo | u(iuit) Troliae | (mulieris) l. Bud(a)e fratris f(iliae) | u(iuit) C. Trolio C. et | (mulieris) l. Tertio fratris f(ilio). Date: first century AD because of the formulary.

Italy  3)



regio IV: AE, 1893, 50 = AE, 1990, 229 (Iuuanum) M. Aufatio M. f. | Arn(ensi) Firmo | Nouio Probo | aedili IIIuiro i(ure) d(icundo) | quaestori quinq(uennali) II | praefecto fabrum | M. Aufatius P. f. Arn(ensi) | Vindex Nouius Probus | praefectus equitum | fratris filius fecit. Date: first century AD because of the formulary.

 4) regio XI: AE, 1972, 216 ; 1994, 735 (Milan) [Heliod]or[o] Macedoni | q[ui] uixit ann(os) pl(us) m(inus) LXX | Theoctes fr(atris) fil(ius) u(iro) e(gregiae) me(moriae) p(o)s(ui)t | d(ie) III k(alendas) D(ecembres). Date: late because of the formulary (third or fourth century AD).



N ieces and N ephews : A n E pigraphic A ppr oach

97

In the western provinces  5) Gallia Narbonensis: ILN, 1, 131 (Gassin, Forum Iulii) M(arcus) Oct(auius) Cat[u]|lli f. sibi et | L(ucio) fratris f(ilio) uiu(u)s p(osuit). Date: first third of the first century AD.  6)

Mauretania Caesariensis: CIL, VIII, 9052 (Sour el Ghozlane, Auzia) l. 11–12: … Cassiae Dulcae et Cassiae | Rest[ut]ae filiabus [fratris] mei pu[pi]labus meis … l. 16–17: … Cassiabus | [Dulc]ae et Restutae filiabus fratris mei Date: second century AD (use of superlatives).

filius, -a sororis Rome  7)



CIL, VI, 2133 Fl(auiae) Mamiliae | u(irgini) V(estali) max(imae) | cuius egregiam sancti|moniam et uenerabilem | morum disciplinam in | deos quoque peruigilem | administrationem senatus | laudando comprobauit | Aemilius Rufinus frater | et Flauii Siluinus et Ire|neus sororis filii a militis | ob eximiam eius erga se | pietatem praestantiamque || Collocata XII kal(endas) April(es) | C. Vettio Attico et | C. Asinio Praetextato co(n)s(ulibus). Date: AD 242.

 8) CIL, VI, 9002 D(is) M(anibus) | Ti(berio) Cl(audio) Neptunali | filio piissimo fec(it) | Ti(berius) Cl(audius) Thallus | Ti(beri) Cl(audi) Thesei | libertus || D(is) M(anibus) | Stephano | Actes n(ostrae) | pistori uix(it) a(nnos) XXIV | Saturninus | sororis f(ilius?) | consacrauit. Date: AD 150–250 (use of the expression DM, superlatives).  9) CIL, VI, 10566 = CIL, XI, *101, 011 Dis Man(i)b(us) | Acu(u)ia Polla so|roris filiae | bene merent(i) | fecit Marcia | Bassilae uixit | annis XII. Date: AD 150–250 (invocation to the Dii Manes). 10) CIL, VI, 13833 Dis | M(anibus) f(ecit) | Caecilia | Magna | C. Nonio | Felici so|roris filio | uix(it) a(nnos) II m(enses) | II d(ies) XXVII. Date: AD 150–250 (invocation to the Dii Manes, indication of the age).

98

Families in the R oman and L ate A ntiq u e R oman Wo rld

11) CIL, VI, 14154 D(is) M(anibus) | Ser(uius) Calpurnius | Cleombrotus | Secundo sororis | filio b(ene) m(erenti) fec(it) | u(ixit) a(nnos) III m(enses) X d(ies) XXIII. Date: AD 150–250 (use of the expression DM, indication of the age). 12) CIL, VI, 22748 D(is) M(anibus) | C. Musonio Iuliano | Aemilia Hero sororis | suae filio fecit qui | uix(it) ann(o) uno mens(ibus) XI. Date: AD 150–250 (use of the expression DM, indication of the age). 13) CIL, VI, 32414 = ILS 4930 Flauiae L. fil. | Publiciae u(irgini) V(estali) max(imae) | sanctissimae piissimaeq(ue) | cuius sanctissimam et | religiosam curam sacror(um) | quam per omnes gradus | sacerdoti laudabili admi|nistratione operator numen | sanctissimae Vestae matris | comprobauit | Aemilia Rogatilla c(larissima) f(emina) sororis fil(ia) | cum Minucio Honorato Marcello | Aemiliano c(larissimo) p(uero) filio suo | ob eximiam eius erga se | pietatem || Col(locata) V id(us) Iul(ias) | dd(ominis) nn(ostris) I[[mp(eratore Philippo]] Aug(usto) II et | [[Philippo]] Caes(are) co(n)s(ulibus). Date: AD 247 14) CIL, VI, 38317 D(is) M(anibus) | Eridanus Zosi|mi Aug(usti) lib(erti) serb[us] (sic) | fecit Eridano filio | sororis meae qui | uixit ann(os) VII m(enses) V | d(ies) XIIII. Date: AD 150–250 (use of the expression DM, indication of the age). 15) AE, 1954, 62 Saloniae Matidiae Aug(usti) sor(oris) f(iliae). Date: AD 97–117 (reign of Trajan). 16) AE, 1968, 42 Haue | Albia Phoebe | Corinthiae f(ilia) | L. Poblici Euhemeri | sororis filia | uix(it) ann(os) VII m(enses) VII d(ies) XVIII. Date: AD 150–250 (detailed indication of the age). 17) AE, 1983, 52 L. Licinius Pom(ptina tribu) Pudens Dertona, militauit | coh(orte) IIII pr(aetoria) annis XVI, uixit an(nis) XXXVI et frater Sex. Licinius Pom(ptina tribu) Ma(n)suetus Dert(ona), | militauit coh(orte) XV urb(ana) ann(is) X, uixit an(nis) XXIX | et Pompeius Primus sororis filius uix(it) ann(is) XV. Date: under Claudius or Nero because of the presence of the cohors XV.



N ieces and N ephews : A n E pigraphic A ppr oach

99

Italy 18) regio X: CIL, V, 1888 (Concordia) [---] | IIIIuir(o) praef(ecto) fabr(um) | Q. Decius Q(uinti) f(ilius) | Caluinus | [s]ororis filio | [t(estamento)] f(ieri) i(ussit). Date: first century AD (?) because of the onomastics. 19) regio X: CIL, V, 4324 = IIt, X, 5, 110 (Brescia, Brixia) Baebiae | M. f. | Nigrinae | T. Viui Vari | consularis | sororis filiae | colleg(ium) cent(onariorum) | t(itulo) u(sa). Date: after AD 134 (T. Viuius Varus was consul ordinarius that year). The last phrase (t(itulo) u(sa)) is a local expression. 20) regio X: CIL, V, 4682 = IIt, X, 5, 488 (Brescia, Brixia) L. Postumius L. f. | Ingenuus | sibi et L. Postumio P. f. | Stabili sorori | Quintiae Satullae | et Exoratae sororis fili(i)s | seruis ancillis suo quoque nomine defunct{i}s XXIX. Date: first century AD because of onomastics and paleography. 21) regio XI: CIL, V, 5857 (Milan, Mediolanum) [---]llus | […] sibi et | […]ri | […]ni | [……] | […]ri | […]ori | […]is f(iliae) || P. Epidius M. f. Tertullus | VIuir iun(ior) sibi et | M. Epidio M. f. Caluo fratri | M. Epidio M. f. Frontoni | VIuir(o) iun(iori) fratri | Petroniae Sex. f. Maximae | matri | Epidiae M. f. Paullae sorori | Atiliae Sabinae sororis f(iliae) | Cassiae C. f. Secundae | uxori. Date: first century AD because of the onomastics. 22) regio XI: CIL, V, 6472 (Milan, Mediolanum) Viui fecere | P. Gauius P. f. Saluius | L. Gauius P. f. Iustus IIIuir | sibi et | P. Gauio P. f. Saluio patri | Carpiae T. f. Mitellae matri | C. Gauio P. f. Modesto VIuir(o) fratri | Gauiae P. f. Maximae sorori | P. Antonio P. f. Seniori IIIIIIuir(o) | P. Antonio P. f. Secundo sororis filiis. Date: first century AD because of the onomastics. 23) regio X: IIt, X, 1, 90 (Pula, Pola) L. Tre[bl]anus C. f. [C]ilo (?) IIuir II[II]uir i(ure) d(icundo) aed(ilis) […] | L. Tre[bl]ano Sex. [f.] | Serg(ia) patri ‌‌|| Caruilia[e] L. f. | Maxima[e] matri || T. Treb[lano …] | fr[atri] || Sex. Fl[a]uonio S[ex. f.] | Basso [s]ororis f(ilio) || Pomponiae Q. f. | matro[n]ae suae || Tre[blanae f.] | Pau[llae …] || testamento fieri ius[sit]. Date: first century AD (IIt).

100

Families in the R oman and L ate A ntiq u e R oman Wo rld

24) regio X: Iaq, 2, 1339 (Aquileia) Papia M. f. | Secunda | u(iua) f(ecit) sibi et | P. Petronio Cl(audia) | Sabino filio | Papiae M. f. Marcellae | sorori | C. Arellio L. f. Marcellino | sororis fil(io). Date: 1st century AD because of the paleography. In the western provinces  Numidia 25) CIL, VIII, 2916 (Tazoult-Lambèse, Lambaesis) D(is) M(anibus) s(acrum) | Bruttiae | Rogatae | materte(rae) | u(ixit) a(nnos) | C. Iulius | Quinti(a)n(u)s | soro(ris) fili(us) | < (centurio) leg(ionis). Date: AD 150–250 (because of the use of DMS). 26) CIL, VIII, 3786 (Lambaesis) D(is) M(anibus) s(acrum) | Iulia Mar|cella u(ixit) a(nnos) XVI | Fl(auius) Datus fili|ae sororis. Date: AD 150–250 (because of the use of DMS). 27) ILAlg, 2–3, 7813; AE, 1989, 900 (Djemila, Cuicul) l. 13–14: … curante Scribonio Scribo|niano sororis fil(io). Date: 10 December 202 – 9 December AD 203 (Imp(eratoris) Caes(aris) M(arci) Aureli Antonini Aug(usti) Pii Felicis | trib(unicia) pot(estate) VI co(n)s(ulis) I e(t) proco(n)s(ulis) …). Africa Proconsularis  28) CIL, VIII, 1574 = 15576 (Henchir Mest, Mustis) l.5: … L. Iulius Titisenus Rogatus Kappianus fil(ius) sororis et heres eius … Date AD 164 (l. 2: … Imp(eratori) Caes(ari) M(arco) Aurelio Antonino Aug(usto) Armeniaco et Imp(eratori) Caes(ari) L(ucio) Aurelio Vero Aug(usto) Armeniaco … ) 29) CIL, VIII, 10079; 22061 (near Oued Romel) Imp(erator) Caes(ar) | M(arcus) Antonius | Gordianus | diui M(arci) Anto|ni Gordiani | nepos diui | [M(arci)] Antoni Go|[rdia]ni sororis | [fil(ius) P]io Felici | [inu]ictissi|[mo Aug(usto) ---] (sic). Date: AD 238– 244. 30) CIL, VIII, 22008 (Ksar Tir) Imp(erator) Caes(ar) | M(arcus) Antonius | Gordianus diui | Gordiani nepos | diui Gordiani | sororis filius | [P]ius Fe[l]ix Aug(ustus) | [pon]





N ieces and N ephews : A n E pigraphic A ppr oach

101

tifex | ma[xi]mus | tri[b(unicia)] pot(estate) co(n)[s(ul) | p]r(o)co(n)s(ul) p(ater) p(atriae) | XX[---]. Date: AD 238–244.

31) CIL, VIII, 22019; ILAfr 664 (Henschir Gamarti) Imp(erator) Caes(ar) | M(arcus) Antonius | Gordianus diui Gordiani nepos diui Gor|diani sororis | filius Pius Felix | Aug(ustus) | pont(ifex) max(imus) | trib(unicia) potestas (sic) | cons(ul) II{I} procon(sul) | p(ater) p(atriae). Date: AD 241–244 (consul II). 32) CIL, VIII, 22026; ILTun 1732 (HenschKeraan) Imp(erator) Caes(ar) | M(arcus) Antonius | Gordianus di|ui Gordiani | nepos diui Gor|diani sororis | fil(ius) [Pius Fel(ix) Aug(ustus)] | [p(ontifex) m(aximus) trib(unicia) pot(estate)] III co(n)s(ul) | proco(n)s(ul) resti|tuit | LXIIII. Date: 10 December AD 239–9 December AD 240 (tribunicia potestate III). 33) CIL, VIII, 22033; ILAfr 664; ILTun 1732 (Henschir Baghla) Imp(erator) Caesar | M(arcus) Antonius | Go[rd]ianus | d[iui] Gord|[iani] nepos | diui Gordi|ani soror|is filius Pius | Felix [Aug(ustus)] | pont[ifex m]a|xim[us trib]u|nic[iae potes]|tat[is III co(n)s(ul)] | pro[co(n)s(ul) res|tituit] | L[XX]. Date: 10 December AD 239–9 December AD 240 (tribunicia potestate III) 34) CIL, VIII, 22037; ILTun 1732 (Henschir R’rao) Imp(erator) Ca[esar M(arcus) An]|toni[us] Gordi|anus diui Gord|iani nepos di|ui Gordiani s[o]roris [filius | Pius | Felix [Aug(ustus)---]. Date: AD 238–244. 35) CIL, VIII, 22043; ILTun 1732 (Henschir Guettar) Imp(erator) Caes(ar) | M(arcus) Antonius | Gordianus | diui M(arci) Anton|i [Gordia]ni | [nepos diui M(arci) | Antoni Gord|iani soro|ris fil(ius) | Pius Fel(ix)] Aug(ustus) | pont(ifex) ma[x(imus) tri]|b(unicia) pot(estate) [III co(n)s(ul)] | proc[o(n)s(ul) resti|tuit---]. Date: 10 December AD 239–9 December AD 240 (tribunicia potestate III). 36) CIL, VIII, 22046; ILTun 1732 (Henschir Guettar) Imp(erator) Caes(ar) | M(arcus) Antonius | Gordianus | diui M(arci) Anto|ni Gordiani | nepos diui M(arci) | Antoni Gordia|ni soro|ris su|ae fil(ius) Pius Fel(ix) | Aug(ustus) fortissi|mus felicissimus | pont(ifex)

102



Families in the R oman and L ate A ntiq u e R oman Wo rld

max(imus) trib(unicia) | [pot(estate) III] co(n)s(ul) pro|co(n)s(ul) restituit ---]. Date: 10 December AD 239–9 December AD 240 (tribunicia potestate III).

Aquitania 37) CIL, XIII, 1165 (Saint-Pierre-les-Églises, near Chauvigny, Poitiers, Limonum Pictonum). Anextlo | [defuncto?] Belgio? | sororis f(ilio?) [A]nextli patris. Date: second half of the first century AD – first half of the second century AD (by comparison with other local inscriptons showing ligatures). Appendix 2: Some evidence of nepos (meaning nephew) in the Roman west Rome 38) AE, 1992, 135 D(is) M(anibus) | L. Septimius | Carus miles | coh(ortis) VIII prae|toriae P(iae) V(indicis) | M. Aurelius Nundinus | a(u)unculus) | ueter(anus) Augg(ustorum) nn(ostrorum) | nepoti bene | merenti. Date: AD 198–209 (under Severus and Caracalla) or AD 211–212 (under Caracalla and Geta). 39) CIL, VI, 3467 D(is) [M(anibus)] | Aelius Vitalio qui uixit | annis XXVI mensibus III d[i]|ebus XV et Valeriae Glauce q|uae uixit annis XXXV mense I | dieb(us) V Germanius Super ue|teranus auunculus nepot[i] | b(ene) m(erenti) f(ecit). Date: AD 150–250 (use of the expression DM, formulary). Italy 40) regio XI: AE, 1987, 461 (Como, Comum) L. Tertieni Crescentis | nepos patruo | de se merenti. Date: third or fourth century AD (AE). In the western provinces Mauretania Caesariensis 41) CIL, VIII, 10330 (Djidjelli, Igilgili) Imp(eratore) Caes(are) | M(arco) Antonio | Gordiano | Pio Fel(ice) Aug(usto) | p(atre) p(atriae) co(n)s(ule) proco(n)s(ule)| nepote di|uorum Gor|dianorum | niliarium (sic) | I. Date: AD 238–244.



N ieces and N ephews : A n E pigraphic A ppr oach

103

42) CIL, VIII, 10331 (Djidjelli, Igilgili) ------| co(n)s(uli) proco(n)s(uli) nepoti | diuor(um) Gordiano|rum ab Igilgil. Date: AD 238–244. 43) CIL, VIII, 10365 (Bouhira, Sétif, Sitifis) Imp(eratori) Caes(ari) M. Clodio Pupieni|o Maximo Pio Felici Aug(usto) | pont(ifici) max(imo) trib(unicia) pot(estate) co(n)s(uli) | II et proco(n) s(uli) p(atri) p(atriae) et | Imp(eratori) Caes(ari) D. Caelio Caluino | Balbino Pio Felici Aug(usto) | pont(ifici) max(imo) trib(unicia) pot(estate) co(n)s(uli) | II proco(n)s(uli) p(atri) p(atriae) et | M. Antonio Gordiano no|bilissimo Caes(ari) Pi(o) Aug(usto) | nepoti diuorum Gor|dianorum res p(ublica) col(onia) | Neru(iana) Aug(usta) Sitif(ensis) | m(ilia) VIIII. Date: AD 238. 44) CIL, VIII, 10452 (Novi) Imp(eratori) Caesa[ri M(arco)] | Antonio Gor|dianus (sic) Pius | Felix Aug(ustus) pontif(ex) max(imus) | trib(unicia) potestate co(n)s(ul) | p(ater) p(atriae) proco(n)s(ul) nep(os) | diuor(um) Gord(ianorum) | [a Caesarea] m(ilia) VI. Date: AD 238–244. Gallia Lugudunensis 45) CIL, XIII, 2206 (Lyon, Lugudunum) D(is) M(anibus) | et memoriae ae‌ternae Q. Matiso|ni Pollionis Q(uintus) An|‌nausionus Pris|cus nepos au(u)|nculo pientissimo | et Heluia Gaetica | coniux digno | posuerunt et sub | ascia dedikauerunt (sic). Date: AD 150–250 (because of the use of DM). Germania Superior 46) CIL, XIII, 11>737; AE, 1902, 64 (Heidelberg) D(is) || M(anibus) || Pacu[---] Beru||i fratribu||s mon||imentum pos(u)it || Secundo B||erui et Mas||uetinc(a)e con||iugi et Mat||tio et Pacidi(a)e neptiae || fli(a)e Scundi || de s(ua) p(ecunia) || Vngario locum ded||it. Date: AD 150–250 (because of the use of DM). Appendix 3 Evidence of sobrinus, -a out of Hispania Rome 47) CIL, VI, 1916 [M]. Anicio Daphno … [et | --- A]nicio M. f. Daphnico sobr[ino et |

104



Families in the R oman and L ate A ntiq u e R oman Wo rld

Ap]usceiae Promethiae sorori et | [A]pusceiae Doridi filiae et Apusceiae [M(arci) lib(ertae)] | Chrysidi et Corneliae Epictesi uxori f[ec(it) M.] | Apusceius M. lib. Hermaphilus uiator q[ui] ‌| Caesaribus et consulibus et praetoribus | apparet sibi et libertis libertabusque suis poster[isq(ue)] | eorum. Date: first century AD because of the formulary.

48) CIL, VI, 34623 D. Aur(elius) Epipodius Arriani fecit sibi [---] | et Aureliis Chrestedi Bacchidi Aelianedi Chrysidi Chrest[---] | Rufinae Maximae Polynoe Polychroniae Bioticae Pollia[e ---] | sobrino meo Ariano Paulo Chresto Musonio Olympo Telesph[---]mne | Pelagio et eorum libertis et filis et co(n) iugibus et libertis l[ib]ertabusq(ue) | posterisque eorum siquis autem post obitum meum corpus extraneu[m] | intulerit uel donationem fecerit inferat populo SS (sestertium) L n(ummum) uel qui donationem ac|ceperit eadem poena populo inferat in fronte p(edes) XIII in agro p(edes) XII | DD(ecimis) Antonio Espero cum co(n)iuge locus n(umero) I et Aur(elio) Callicore loc(us) n(umero) I. Date: end of the second century AD–third century AD (because of the onomastics: abbreviation of the nomen gentilicium Aurelius). Italy 49) regio VIII: CIL, XI, 589 (Forlimpopoli, Forum Popilii) […]arlenae T. l. | […]hediste matri | […]arlenae T. f. | […] Prim(a)e sorori | […]iae Cn. f. | […]e sobrin(ae). Date: first century AD because of the formulary. 50) regio IX: CIL, IX, 761 (Larino, Larinum) D(is) M(anibus) s(acrum) | Oriens pub(licus) | [---]no sob(rino) | [C] aluillae | sor(ori) | [f]r[a]t[ri]b(us) (?) b(ene) m(erentibus) | [an]imo lib(ens) | p(osuit). | H(auete) et ual(ete). Date: AD 150–250 (use of the expression DMS). 51) regio IX: CIL, IX, 762 (Larino, Larinum) C. Otacidius Pisidi|nus uiuos sibi et | Ortoriae Lochiadi | contubernali | suae M. Pontio | Marcello sobrino | suo C. Otacidio Floro | patri suo | in agro p(edes) XII in fr(onte) p(edes) XII. Date: first century AD because of the formulary. 52)

regio X: CIL, V, 381 = ILS 8280; Iit., X, 3, 59 (Cittanova, Neapolis) C. Clepius T(iti) f(ilius) P[u]p(inia) | Senecio u(iuus) f(ecit) sib(i) et | T. Clepio Tommo patr(i) | Clepiae Sp. f. Mendae | matri | Coeliae Sp. f. Secundae | u[x]ori | Rubriae Q[u]erqui f. | Tertiae sobrinae | et siquis





N ieces and N ephews : A n E pigraphic A ppr oach

105

meorum nomine | Clepius erit ei locum humandi | do item locum os(s)ibus ponundis (sic). Date: first century AD because of the formulary.

53) regio X: Iaq, 01, 1049 (Aquileia) Ossa | Curiae | M. f. | Marcellae || M. Curius Sp. F. Marcellus u(iuus) f(ecit) sibi et Cotiae Q. f. uxori || M. Curio Sp. f. patri | Vediae Dionysiae | matri | Curiae M. l. auiae || M. Curio M. f. Marcello f. | Curiae M. f. Marcellae f(iliae) | M. Curio M. f. Sabino f(ilio) | M. Curio Sp. f. Viatori fratri || Curiae Sp. f. Secundae | sorori | Curiae M. f. Vestae sobrinae | M. Curio Attico liber(to) || M. Curius Sp f. Marcellus u(iuus) f(ecit) sibi et Cotiae Q. f. uxori lib(ertis), lib(ertabus)q(ue). L(ocus) m(onumenti) in fr(onte) p(edes) XVI, in agr(o) p(edes) XXV. | M. Sarius L. l. Philinus u(iuus) | [f(ecit) sibi ---] | uxori lib(ertis) lib(ertabus)q(ue). L(ocus) m(onumenti) in fr(onte) p(edes) XVI, in agr(o) p(edes) XXV, pro indiuiso. Date: reign of Claudius or Nero because of the paleography. Mauretania tingitana  54) AE, 1954, 156 = IAM, II, 547 (Volubilis) D(is) M(anibus) s(acrum) | Bolanius | Sabinus Syro|foenix uix(it) ann(is) LV hic s(itus) e(st) s(it) t(ibi) t(erra) l(euis) | Ausius Ausonius | sobrinus fecit. Date: third century AD because of the onomastics (lack of the praenomen) and the use of ligatures (IAM). Appendix 4 Evidence of sobrinus in Hispania Conventus Asturum 55) IRPLE 101 (Astorga, Asturica Augusta) D(is) M(anibus) | Calpu|rnia E|lanis | suo sob|rino pia | pientis(simo) | pos(u)it an(norum) | [XV]. Date: AD 150–250 (because of the use of the expression DM). 56) CIL, II, 2657 = IRPLE 123 (Astorga, Asturica Augusta) Pelliae Visali f. an(norum) XXX, | Visaliae Visali f. an(norum) XXV, | sororibus, | Caesiae Cloutai f. an(norum) XXV, | Coporino Copori f. an(norum) XXII, | sobrinis, | Domitius Senecio f(aciendum) c(urauit). Date: first century AD (for lack of DM). Conventus Carthaginiensis 57) CIL, II, 3053; ILER 4788; LICS 87 = HEp, 4, 130 (Guisando, Avilá) Caecilia Vacemq(um) (?) Re|burri f. et T. Sem|pronius Reburr[us] sobrin[us] ‌| u(i)u(i) f(aciendum) c(urauerunt). Date: second century AD (HEp).

106

Families in the R oman and L ate A ntiq u e R oman Wo rld

58) CIL, II, 3411; DECAR, 31, 40 (Cartagena, Carthago Nova) [- Helui]us Pollio L(---) | [ex le]gato ? | [s]oror(is) et sobri[ni | -]de Aug(-) da[t]. Date: second half of the first century AD (DECAR). 59) HEp, 5, 809 (Oliva, Dianium) D(is) M(anibus) || Pompeiae [---]|stae [an(norum) -, – Pompeius ? | ------] soror[i | c]ar(issimae ar[am | p]osuit et G. Pom[pe]|io Nicostrato so|brino et [G. ?] P[om]|peio Philipo (sic) s[o]|roris uiro, ad[fi]nibus piissi|mis. Date: AD 150–250 (because of the use of DM). Conventus Cordubensis 60) CIL, II2/7, 968 = HEp, 4, 152 (Magacela, Badajoz; Contosalia ?) P. Fabius M|odestus Rufionis f(ilius) | h(ic) s(itus) e(st) s(it) t(ibi) t(erra) l(euis) | P. Acilius | Rufus | sobrino | d(e) s(uo) p(osuit). Date: first century AD (CIL, II2/7, 968). Conventus Emeritensis 61) AE, 1993, 904; HEp, 5, 89 (Mérida, Augusta Emerita) D(is) M(anibus) s(acrum) | M. Argentarius | Achaicus Emer(itensis) | an(norum) XXII | h(ic) s(itus) e(st) s(it) t(ibi) t(erra) l(euis) | Argentar(ia) Verana | sobrino et liberto f(ecit). Cf. AE, 1993, 903 (Mérida): D(is) M(anibus) s(acrum) | Argent(ariae) Veranae Emer(itensi) ann(orum) LXV Ar(gentarius) | Vegetinus materterae et patro|nae faciendum curauit | h(ic) s(ita) e(st) s(it) t(ibi) t(erra) l(euis). Date: second or third quarter of the second century AD (AE). 62) AE, 1999, 876 (Mérida, Augusta Emerita) P. Sertorius Niger medic(us) | sibi et P. Sertorio patri suo | et Caeciliae | Vrbanae uxori suae, Serto|riae Tertullae sorori | suae et M. Didius Postumus | sobrinus et heres | P. Sertori(i) Nigri de suo sibi | statuam pos(u)it. Date: second half of the first century AD. 63) ERAE 387 (Mérida, Augusta Emerita) D(is) M(anibus) s(acrum) | Vibia Asclepiace | ann(orum) XV m(ensium) V | Vib(ius) Asclepiades | frater et | [P]ublicia Oliuola | sobrinae dulcissi|mae et piissimae | fecerunt | h(ic) s(ita) e(st) s(it) t(ibi) t(erra) l(euis). Date: AD 150–250 (because of the use of DMS). 64) ERAE 394; ILER 4791 (Mérida, Augusta Emerita) D(is) M(anibus) s(acrum) | Vict(or, -oria ?) Victulla | ann(orum) XXXV



N ieces and N ephews : A n E pigraphic A ppr oach

107

| Ter(entii) Nouelli (sic) [s(eruus, -a)] | sobrinis suis | f(aciendum) c(urauit). Date: second century AD (because of the use of DMS).



Conventus Hispalensis 65) CIL, II, 1215; ILER 4789; CILA, 2, 52 (Seville, Hispalis) D(is) M(anibus) s(acrum) | L. Auili Succes[si] | sobrini pientissimi | qui uixit ann(is) XXII. | C. [---V]enustus | V[----] Fabul[---]? | fecit. Date: AD 150–250 (because of the use of DMS and ‘qui uixit annis’). Conventus Pacensis 66) CIL, II, 5193; IRCP 446 (Évora, Ebora) L. C(aecilius) Gallio ann(orum) L | h(ic) s(itus) e(st) s(it) t(ibi) t(erra) l(euis). C(aecilia) Vi|talis sor(or) et | M. Ful(uius ?) Caeci|lianus sobri(nus) | f(aciendum) c(urauerunt). Date: first century AD (IRCP). 67) CIL, II, 5191; ILER 4792; IRCP 390 (Evora, Ebora) T. Calleus | Marcianus | an(norum) XX h(ic) s(itus) e(st) s(it) t(ibi) t(erra) l(euis). | Cas(sia) Marcella | sobrina f(aciendum) c(urauit) | item amici Nemesiaci | ex lapide s(estertium) n(ummum) II (duo)m(ilia) | [.]EM ESIACI. Date: second century AD (IRCP). Conventus Tarraconensis 68) AE, 1966, 207; IRC, IV, 59 (Barcelona, Barcino) [Q. Co]rnelius Sp. f. Sec[undus] | d[o]mo colonia Ca[rtha]gine Magna sibi et Corne[liae] | Quartae matri, Gemniae Q[uar]tae uxori, Corneliae Tertull[ae] | f(iliae), Q. Corn(elio) Seran(o) f(ilio) aed(ili) II(duum) ui[ro], | Corn(eliae) Quartill(ae) f(iliae), Cor(neliae) Dubit[atae] | f(iliae), Cor(neliae) Sp. f. Tertull(ae) sorori, | L. Mae[uio] | Rogato sobrino. Date: 1st century AD (IRC).

Notes * 1 2 3 4 5

Thanks to P. Wargnier, R.-M. Pham Dinh (CRIDAF – Paris-13 University) and P. Le Roux (Paris-13 University) for having translated and reread this paper. Bettini, 1994. Bush, 1971, p. 117. Armani, 2008 and 2009. About the nephew kinship terminology, see the innovating work but now largely at issue of Beekes, 1976. See the literary occurrences in Bibliotheca Teubneriana Latina (BTL) online.

108 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14

15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35 36 37

38

Families in the R oman and L ate A ntiq u e R oman Wo rld

See Appendix 1. See Appendix 1, no. 5. See Appendix 1, no. 6. See Appendix 1, nos. 25–36. See Appendix 1, nos. 29–36. See Appendix 1, nos. 25–26 and nos. 27–28. See Appendix 1, nos. 7–24 (n. 17: Claudius or Nero; nos. 7; 13: third century AD). See Appendix 1, no. 37, but the reading is not sure. For instance: CIL, II, 2150, 3697, 4278, 5708, 5720; CIL, XII, 893, 1951, 3694; CIL, XIII, 1089, 1984, 2206, 2228, 2307, 4180, 4375, 7592, 8282 (auunculus). ILER 4787; CIL, XII, 198, 1115, 1427, 2489; AE, 1967, 289 (patruus). CIL, II, 2355; ILER 4785; CIL, XII, 2374, 3030, 3678 (amita). CIL, II, 6299; CIL, XII, 3925, 5866. AE, 1993, 903 (matertera). See also Saller and Shaw, 1984, 136 and 148–149. See Appendix 2. Corbier, 1998, pp. 110–111. See also the study of Nicolas Mathieu, L’épitaphe et la mémoire (forthcoming) and Bettini, 1986, pp. 62–64. See Appendix 2, no. 46. See Appendix 2, no. 45. See Appendix 2, nos. 41–44. In these inscriptions where nepos is used for nephew, niece, the term is employed symmetrically with the term auunculus or patruus: Appendix 2, nos. 38–40. See Appendix 4, nos. 55–68. See Appendix 4, nos. 55–59 and 68. See Appendix 4, nos. 61–64 and 66–67. See Appendix 4, nos. 60; 65. See end note n. 3. Cf. Bettini, 1994, pp. 230–231. See Appendix 4, no. 61. See Appendix 3, no. 54. See Appendix 3, nos. 47–53. See Appendix 3, no. 53. See Christol and Le Roux, 1985. Plaut., Poen., l. 1067; Ter., An., l. 801 and Phorm., l. 384, quoted by Bettini, 1986, p. 225; Cic., Off., 1, 54. See Appendix 3, nos. 52–53. See Appendix 3, no. 50. See Appendix 4, nos. 59; 61–64 (Mérida); 68. See Le Roux, 1995. The success of the term sobrinus, -a maybe explains why there are so few freedmen in the inscriptions mentioning a filius, -a fratris, sororis. Furthermore, is it possible that the word sobrinus, -a was preferred to an expression with the term filius, -a, less used by the slave families which according to the law could not have legitimate children? About the need for social recognition, consult also Edmondson, 2001, pp. 93–94; Edmondson, 2002–2003, pp. 201–238; Edmondson, 2005, pp. 341–371; Corbier, 2007, p. 87; Armani, 2009, pp. 185–187. About Argentarius, -a, see Dardaine, 1983; about Sertorius/Didius, read Navarro Caballero, 2002, pp. 283–284.

Bibliography Armani, S. (2008), ‘Un sobrinus chez des Carthaginois de Barcelone: influence locale?’ in González, J., Ruggieri, P., Vismara, C. and Zucca, R. (eds), L’Africa Romana (Le Ricchezze dell’Africa. Risorse, Produzioni, Scambi), Rome, pp. 1247–1262.



N ieces and N ephews : A n E pigraphic A ppr oach

109

—(2009), ‘Relations familiales et sociales dans une inscription d’Oliva (HEp, 5, 809)’, MCV, 39, (1), 175–193. Bettini, M. (1986), Antropologia e Cultura Romana. Parentela, Tempo, Immagini dell’Anima, Rome: La Nuova Italia Scientifica. —(1994), ‘De la terminologie romaine des cousins’, in Bonte, P. (ed), Épouser au plus Proche. Inceste, Prohibitions et Stratégies Matrimoniales autour de la Méditerranée. Actes du Colloque sur le Mariage dans un Degré Rapproché. Études Comparatives, Paris, Collège de France, 31 mai, 1er et 2 juin 1989, Paris: Éditions de l’École des hautes études en sciences sociales, pp. 221–239. Beekes, R. S. P. (1976), ‘Uncle and nephew’, JIES, 4, 43–63. Brandão, D. P. (1972), ‘Epigrafia romana coliponense’, Conimbriga, 11, 50–60. Bush, A. C. (1971), Roman Collateral Kinship Terminology, Ann Arbor Michigan: University Microfilms International. Christol, M. and Le Roux, P. (1985), ‘L’aile Tauriana Torquata et les relations militaires de l’Hispania et de la Maurétanie tingitane entre Claude et Domitien’, AntAfr, 21, 26–33. Corbier, M. (1998), ‘Épigraphie et parenté’, in Le Bohec, Y. and Roman, Y. (eds), Épigraphie et Histoire: Acquis et Problèmes. Actes du Congrès de la Société des Professeurs d’Histoire Ancienne (Lyon-Chambéry, 21–23 mai 1993), Lyon: Diffusion: de Boccard, Paris, pp. 101–152. —(2007), Donner à Voir, Donner à Lire: Mémoire et Communication dans la Rome Ancienne, Paris: CNRS. Dardaine, S. (1983), ‘La gens Argentaria en Hispania (la femme de Lucain avaitelle une origine hispanique)’, MCV, 39, (1), 5–15. Edmondson, J. (2001), ‘Conmemoración funeraria y contexto social’, in Edmondson, J., Nogales Basarrate, T. and Trillmich, W. (eds), Imagen y Memoria. Monumentos Funerarios con Retratos en la Colonia Augusta Emerita, Bibliotheca Archaelogica Hispana, 6, Madrid: Real Academia de la Historia, pp. 93–94. —(2002–2003), ‘Family life within Slave Households at Augusta Emerita: The Epitaph of the Cordii’, Anas, 15–16, 201–238. —(2005), ‘Los monumentos funerarios como espejo de la sociedad emeritense: secretos y problemas sociofamiliares a la luz de la epigrafía’, in Nogales Basarrate, T. (ed), Augusta Emerita: Territorios, Espacios, Imagenes y Gentes en Lusitania Romana, Badajoz: Ministerio de Educación, Cultura y Deporte, Museo Nacional de Arte Romano, Fundación de estudios romanos, pp. 341–371. Encarnacão (d’), J. (1986), ‘Indigenismo e romanização na Lusitania’, Biblos, 62, 457–458. Lassère, J.-M. (2007), Manuel d’Epigraphie Romaine, Vol. 1, Paris: Picard. Le Roux, P. (1995), ‘L’émigration italique en Citérieure et Lusitanie jusqu’à la mort de Néron’, in Beltrán Lloris, F. (ed), Roma y el Nacimiento de la Cultura Epigráfica en Occidente, Zaragoza: Institución ‘Fernando el Católico’, pp. 85–95.

110

Families in the R oman and L ate A ntiq u e R oman Wo rld

Navarro Caballero, M. (2002), ‘Notas sobre algunos gentilicios romanos de Lusitania: una propuesta metodológico acerca de la imigración itálica’, in Gorges, J.-G. and Nogales Basarrate, T. (eds), Sociedad y Cultura en Lusitania Romana, Vol. 4, Mérida: Junta de Extremadura, pp. 281–297. Nielsen, H. S. (1997), ‘Interpreting epithets in Roman epitaphs’, in Rawson, B. and Weaver, P. R. C. (eds), The Roman family in Italy. Status, sentiment, space, Canberra: Humanities Research Centre, pp. 169–203. Saller, R. P. and Shaw, B. D. (1984), ‘Tombstones and Roman family relationships in the Principate: civilians, soldiers and slaves’, JRS, 74, 124–156.

7

A Bioarchaeological Perspective on the Pre-Adult Stages of the Life Course: Implications for the Care and Health of Children in the Roman Empire* R. C. Redfern and R. L. Gowland

Introduction In regard to the skeletal remains of children, it is the emotive practice of infanticide, or deviant and unusual burial contexts (within wells, under dwellings and temples) that tend to garner the most academic and media attention. Children form a critical and sizeable component of all past populations and it is unfortunate that their mode of burial often overshadows their value as a pivotal conduit for understanding past lifeways and environments. Bioarchaeological analyses of children are rarely included in multidisciplinary volumes concerning childhood and the family in the ancient world. Yet the skeletons of children are particularly sensitive to environmental onslaughts as a consequence of living conditions and child-rearing practices.1 The bioarchaeological analysis of children therefore provides crucial direct evidence for their well-being in relation to their social and physical milieu. The potential for this biological evidence to yield significant information about the Roman family is immense and yet it is a currently under-utilized resource in such studies. This is partly a result of inter- and sub-disciplinary boundaries and a lack of communication across these. This chapter therefore aims to provide a basic overview of the methodologies, limitations and potentials of the skeletal analysis of children for understanding child-rearing and family in the ancient world.

What is a child? Before starting is it worth addressing the thorny issue of terminology. Scattered throughout the archaeological literature are words such as infant, child, juvenile and adolescent. These terms are often used instead of chronological ages (i.e. 3 to 4 years) and often without any standardization or definition.2 For example, one author may refer to a 7-year-old as an ‘infant’ while another may restrict the term ‘infant’ to those individuals of less than 1 year of age. In the title of this

112

Families in the R oman and L ate A ntiq u e R oman Wo rld

paper we refer to ‘sub-adults’ and this is the term most commonly employed in the bioarchaeological literature when referring to skeletally immature individuals. One of the reasons for the use of ‘sub-adults’ is to avoid the words ‘children’ or ‘child’, which are of course culturally loaded and may be entirely inappropriate and misleading when applied to past remains (e.g. a 15-year-old Romano-British male is unlikely to have been viewed as a ‘child’). However, the word ‘sub-adult’ is not without its problems either and is differentially used by some bioarchaeologists to refer only to those individual(s) in the later stages of physical maturation. In addition, the use of ‘sub’ implies that these individuals are somehow ‘lesser’ than adults in other respects. Likewise, the use of ‘non-adults’ (a term also widely employed by bioarchaeologists) is also unsatisfactory because it defines children in opposition to adults and in the negative. Above, we referred to ‘skeletally immature individuals’ and one would think that skeletal maturity and the cessation of skeletal development would provide a useful biological ‘cut off point’ between the categories of ‘child’ and ‘adult’. However, there are several late fusing bones, such as the medial end of the clavicle (collarbone), which do not fuse in some individuals until their late twenties.3 A further confounding factor is the variability between individuals (and between the sexes) in terms of the timing of skeletal maturity, which is highly dependent on environment as well as genetics.4 Finally, one must question the relevance of ‘biological age’ for the cultural construction of the life course at all. As always, we must reconcile ourselves to the fact that there are no discrete and straightforward categories when it comes to the human body and must address this as best we can. In the following paper, when the term ‘sub-adult’ or ‘child’ is employed it is to refer to the remains of those skeletons whose major long bones have fused, though some of the late-fusing epiphyses may not be fully fused (approximately 18 to 20 years).5 We recognize that this is a purely arbitrary category and is likely to have little or no relevance in cultural terms. Finally while we use the category of ‘sub-adult’ for all of those individuals under 18 to 20 years we do not imply that these were viewed in the past as a homogeneous group.

Sub-adult Bioarchaeology The skeleton is a living tissue, and as such is engaged in a constant process of destruction and renewal (bone turnover). The sub-adult skeleton undergoes a considerably more rapid rate of bone turnover when compared to adult skeletons, to enable the processes of bone growth and maturation.6 Consequently their response to disease and health stress more generally (poor nutrition, etc.) differs from adults, particularly the interval between the onset of a disease and the manifestation of an osteological response.7 Of course, not all diseases will create an osseous response because they kill too quickly.8 Below we discuss



A B ioarchae o l o gical P erspective o n the P re - A du lt S tages

113

some of the properties of sub-adult bones that result in differential responses to disease and environment during an individual’s lifetime and also after death and once buried. Bias and Frailty in the Archaeological Record The representatives of past communities in the archaeological record are just that, they are a sub-sample of the once living population.9 Individuals, particularly sub-adults, display differences between one another in terms of response to disease and risk of death (frailty). These factors can be explored using the osteological paradox.10 This paradigm, shows us that the risk of disease (morbidity) and death (mortality) is influenced by age with the youngest (infants) and oldest age-groups experiencing higher mortality risks.11 Therefore, even should all individuals that died within a population be subject to the same burial rites and be equally influenced by taphonomic factors, the archaeological samples available to us are not a reflection of the living population but are instead an ‘unknown mixture of individuals who varied in their underlying frailty or susceptibility to disease and death’.12 However, individuals whose frailty led them to succumb to a disease during childhood are subject to a number of factors that influence the likelihood of them entering and surviving the archaeological record. The primary influencing factors are the method of body disposal and burial location. In the Roman world, age-differences in body disposal were practiced, although the extent to which this occurred varied within and between regions and through time.13 Newborns and those less than 3 years old (usually referred to as infants) have been excavated from what are often regarded as clandestine locations (e.g. within wells or settlements). Although this perspective may have media appeal it does little to recognize the variety and complexity of funerary strategies employed by past communities.14 For example, infant skeletons recovered from a sewer beneath a brothel at Ashkelon (Israel),15 and those buried in a designated area of a cemetery in Carthage (North Africa)16 and Early Roman Athens.17 The age-at-death distribution of these cemeteries and burials within settlements, together with palaeopathological and archaeological evidence can help to elucidate the manner in which these infants died (see below). The mode of disposal of human remains will directly affect the completeness with which they become incorporated into the archaeological record. Taphonomic factors acting on a body will vary according to the type of container (or not) used, depth of burial, soil acidity and ground temperature, in addition to age and sex variables.18 Lewis observes that sub-adult bodies will decompose differently and more rapidly than adults, and also display variations according to such subtle differences as whether the infants have or not received their first feed before death.19 Bello et al.’s 2006 review of bone survival and its relationship to age and sex variables, concluded that the preservation

114

Families in the R oman and L ate A ntiq u e R oman Wo rld

of (non-cremated) skeletal material increases with age, with the intrinsic nature of sub-adult skeletons (i.e. bone composition and size) determined their poorer state of preservation. Consequentially, those aged between birth and 4 years were the poorest preserved, whereas those between the ages of 5 and 19 years had a pattern of preservation with characteristics similar to both adults and sub-adults.20 Additionally, sub-adults show differences in preservation between the sexes, with the threshold between poorer and better states were around a year old for males and 4 years old for females; however, this finding was observed on a small sample size, and the finding should be accepted with caution.21 Age was also a factor in determining whether individuals were cremated or inhumed.22 Archaeological evidence from Roman Britain indicates that cremation funerals took place near to or at the grave. At the end of a cremation funeral, a recognizable skeleton will be present – even from a neonatal/young infant individual;23 however, the original bone size and state of development will also impact on fragment size.24 In general terms, the denser the bones, and those surrounded by a lot of muscle tissue survive cremation and the burial environment.25 Data from osteological analyses of Romano-British cremated remains indicates that not all of the body/skeleton was incorporated into the grave.26 McKinley27 notes that 50  per cent or less of the skeleton may be included in the burial which may reflect both the purposeful selection of particular bones, but also funerals interrupted by bad weather.28 The effects of frailty and taphonomy must be factored in to any interpretation of the results of skeletal analysis as they can considerably distort our potential understanding of past populations.

Methods used in Analysis Our ability to establish an individual’s identity, in terms of age-at-death, ancestry, growth and health, is dependent on skeletal preservation and completeness, which have been outlined above. We have excluded sex determination from this overview, as existing methods are not consistently reliable between populations and locales; additionally, ancient DNA (aDNA) testing shows that results may vary according to the bone or dental tissue sampled and that male individuals who died during puberty may be incorrectly assigned as female because of hormone imbalances.29 Determination of Age-at-Death Estimates of age and sex of skeletal remains is fundamental to all further bioarchaeological analysis and interpretation. Age-at-death of sub-adult remains can be established using radiographic, microscopic and macroscopic methods; an overview of these techniques can be found in (among others) Cunha et al.



A B ioarchae o l o gical P erspective o n the P re - A du lt S tages

115

(2009), Lewis (2007), Lewis and Flavel (2006), and Scheuer and Black (2000). Although detailed examination exceeds the confines of this chapter, it should be noted that different populations (e.g. European or African) and both sexes show some degree of variation in the relationship between skeletal maturation and chronological age.30 Furthermore, it should be noted that as with many osteological methodologies, the samples upon which skeletal ageing methods are generated are likely to be modern in origin, and therefore, researchers should be aware of the potential differences in rates of ageing between modern, historic and prehistoric populations.31 As the majority of bioarchaeologists most frequently employ macroscopic methods, these are outlined below. Sub-adults can be aged using a range of skeletal and dental techniques, including tooth formation and eruption, long bone growth, and the appearance and fusion of ossification centres. Tooth formation and eruption are considered to be the most accurate and reliable methods of age estimation in sub-adults because dental development is strongly correlated with chronological age and only minimally influenced by environmental factors (e.g. disease and malnutrition). Furthermore, the difference in the timing of dental development between boys and girls is comparatively small. This is an important consideration given that we cannot estimate the sex of sub-adult remains. Macroscopic assessment of age-at-death using the dentition is based on dental development and emergence sequences derived from archaeological, forensic or clinical samples.32 Tooth formation begins in utero. At birth, the crowns of the deciduous (milk) incisors are approximately 60 per cent formed. Tooth formation ceases in most individuals with the third permanent molar (wisdom teeth) in the late teens to early twenties. This method is therefore of use for estimating age at death throughout the entire period of growth and development. Long bone growth (diaphyseal length) is widely used to estimate age-at-death. This technique is most useful during the foetal and perinatal period (around the time of birth) and into early infancy when growth is very rapid – thus allowing for a reasonable correlation with chronological age. Studies of long bone growth have been used to estimate the age-at-death of large perinatal samples in order to investigate practices such as infanticide in the Roman Empire.33 Long bone growth slows dramatically after the age of 1 year and increasing variability occurs between individuals as they get older. Consequently, after the age of approximately 10 years, long bone growth is a less useful indicator of chronological age in children.34 While the adult skeleton comprises 206 bones, during childhood the number of bones is considerably greater and age dependent. This is due to the appearance of what are referred to as ‘centres of ossification’ which are essentially small bones which develop from cartilage, grow and then fuse on to other bones.35 The appearance and fusion of ossification centres occurs throughout the growth period (Figure 7.1). The fusion of the ends of the major long bones to bone shafts (epiphyseal fusion) is a particularly useful indicator of age-atdeath during the teenage years, when other indicators such as bone growth

116

Families in the R oman and L ate A ntiq u e R oman Wo rld

and dental eruption are not so useful (Figure 7.2). As with bone growth, there are differences between the sexes in the timing of skeletal maturation with the bones of females tending to fuse earlier than males.36

Figure 7.1  Distal epiphysis of the femur (thigh bone) at various stages of development prior to fusion, from youngest to oldest (left to right)

Figure 7.2  Distal end of the femur with the epiphysis recently fused and the fusion line clearly visible



A B ioarchae o l o gical P erspective o n the P re - A du lt S tages

117

Each of the above techniques will provide an age-range (i.e. 6 to 10 years), and typically a bioarchaeologist will average these out to arrive at a single year age-at-death or assign the individual to an age-group. Age estimates are limited by those bones/teeth present and the overall condition of the skeleton. Because of the rapidity of development during the growth period, even when preservation is poor a reasonable age estimate can usually be attained. We need to consider the fact that long bone growth and bone fusion may be delayed by episodes of poor health. In the archaeological record we are of course dealing with ‘non-survivors’ and it is possible that these individuals experienced a chronic period of poor health prior to death that retarded growth.37 When estimating age-at-death, a disparity between an individual’s skeletal and dental age may occur, because tooth formation and eruption are independent of skeletal and secondary sexual maturation.38 Estimates based on ‘dental age’ may be older than ‘skeletal age’ because, diseases and/or poor health prior to death led to the individual to have delayed skeletal maturation.39 Dental age is considered a more reliable indicator of age-at-death40 in these instances. Ancestry The Roman world was a multicultural one and the epigraphic and historical evidence shows us that individuals travelled thousands of miles.41 The ability to identify ancestry and mobility in the bioarchaeological record is desirable and was the subject of a recent study on the Romano-British cemetery of Trentholme Drive in York through the integration of archaeological, isotopic and craniometric analysis.42 Determining ancestry using craniometrics has a sinister and contentious history within the discipline of anthropology, associated as it has been with racism, eugenics and Nazism. Although craniometric techniques are more sophisticated than they once were, utilizing statistical analyses of biological affinity using computer software programmes (e.g. Fordisc), our ability to determine ancestry from the skeleton is still much debated.43 Genetic and morphological studies show that there is no direct correlation between physical appearance and a person’s genetic heritage or place of origin.44 Furthermore, some cranial measurement can show plasticity between successive generations due to environmental factors. Indeed recent research has demonstrated that the morphology of the craniofacial skeleton also changes with age.45 Consequently, determination of an individual’s ancestry is not a clear-cut and simple process and current morphometric techniques are not without their problems.46 Our ability to estimate an individual’s biological affinity before adulthood is even more complex, as a sub-adult skeleton is continually undergoing growth and development. As in adults, the majority of current research on sub-adult ancestry concentrates on the morphology of the craniofacial skeleton, such as the morphology of the mandible, dimensions of the cranium and dental arch.47 In addition to cranial measurements, variants in dental morphology (also

118

Families in the R oman and L ate A ntiq u e R oman Wo rld

known as non-metric traits) have been shown to have higher frequencies in certain populations and have been used to investigate population relatedness or ‘biodistance’.48 These studies however should be used with caution in relation to sub-adults as some research has found that certain non-metric traits (e.g. Carabelli’s cusps) may not be shown in both the deciduous and permanent dentition.49 Also, it is often difficult to obtain sufficiently large sample sizes from archaeological cemeteries for meaningful statistical analyses of these features. In recent years, stable isotope analysis has been used to explore mobility patterns. Dental samples may provide oxygen and strontium isotopes which indicate differences between residence locales during childhood and adulthood;50 carbon and nitrogen isotopes can also be used to examine mobility through dietary contributions. In the Roman world, the cereal millet has a different isotopic signature compared to other cereals, and thus it is possible to identify people who, for example, have moved from the Mediterranean to Britain.51 In combination with skeletal morphology, these isotopes can be used to understand population diversity. We strongly urge that population-based studies are conducted, rather than individual case-studies in order to better understand communities over time and in different locales.52 Growth and Stature Adult height (stature) is widely recognized as an important indicator of socio-economic well-being by economists, anthropologists and sociologists (among others) today.53 A number of studies of stature in the Roman world have examined the impact of Romanization on health in various parts of the Roman Empire using stature as a proxy.54 It is not possible to determine the stature of sub-adults; because the diaphysis and epiphysis are joined together by the growth plate (made of cartilage) whose thickness varies throughout development.55 Therefore, research focuses on bone growth; in the majority of cases the femur (the largest and fastest growing bone) is employed to investigate growth trajectories in past populations.56 Growth is an important indicator of the interaction between genetics, health and the living environment.57 If an individual has a compromised diet or is suffering from poor health, and growing-up in a deprived environment, their ability to grow will be inhibited.58 It appears that the presence of compromised growth in non-survivors is a by-product of their increased morbidity risk and dependent on the coexistence of disease.59 Nevertheless, it has been shown that for the purposes of bioarchaeology, other errors (unknown sex, quality of excavation, and preservation) more outweigh this ‘non-survivor’ bias.60 Understanding an individual’s growth pattern is very difficult, because it is influenced by so many factors in addition to genetics (e.g. socio-economic status, urbanization and migration).61 Socio-economic status does not appear to strongly affect growth during the period of breastfeeding, however. After the age of 6 months when breast milk no longer meets the nutritional needs of the



A B ioarchae o l o gical P erspective o n the P re - A du lt S tages

119

infant, the type and quality of introduced foods does impact on growth. This disparity results in high-status children being larger than their poorer counterparts, if this disparity continues the poorer children may not be able to achieve catch-up-growth before skeletal maturation.62 Migration plays a complex role in growth and final attained stature. Numerous studies have shown that the offspring of rural-urban migrants may be taller than their parents or sedentes, because in many cases living in an urban environment allowed them to a better diet, health and higher socio-economic status.63 This trend is not universal or without temporal or spatial variations and some anthropological studies have found that rural children could be taller than their urban counterparts;64 Bogin cautions that ‘urban and rural environments are not uniformly distinct, nor are they internally homogeneous’65 and therefore, the extent to which historical and contemporary studies may be used in bioarchaeology should be undertaken with caution.66 Variation in growth between different environments and groups of people is an under-explored area of study in relation to the Roman World and yet it may reveal subtle socio-cultural differences.

Bioarchaeological Evidence for the Lives of Children Our ability to investigate the health of past children can be approached from two directions: examining the skeletons of sub-adults to provide evidence of earlier disease episodes and those which affected the individual at the time of death, and the analysis of adult individuals, in whom many aspects of poor childhood health may be retained, particularly in tissue that does not undergo remodelling, such as the dentition. It is not feasible to provide an overview of all disease types that affect the sub-adult skeleton; this has been addressed by (among others) Aufderheide and Rodríquez-Martín (1998), Lewis (2007, 2006), Ortner (2003) and Roberts and Manchester (2005). Therefore, we will address commonly pursued research themes in relation to the Roman world: demography and infanticide, ancestry and mobility, childcare and health, weaning and diet. Demography and infanticide The relationship between the age-at-death distribution of a cemetery site and the demography of the living population is highly complex and such interpretations are fraught with difficulty.67 The remains of sub-adults are frequently underrepresented in archaeological cemetery contexts as a result of cultural and taphonomic biases. However, useful information concerning infant health and care can still be gleaned from the age-at-death distributions of those that are recovered and examples in relation to the Roman Empire are briefly discussed below.

120

Families in the R oman and L ate A ntiq u e R oman Wo rld

Within late Roman Britain, many infant remains were buried within settlements rather than formal cemeteries. The vast majority of these have been shown to have been less than 6 months of age and most died around the time of birth. Much has been published in the literature regarding the nature of these deaths, whether through natural mortality or infanticide.68 Mays has argued that the mortality profile of infants buried within both settlements and cemeteries in Roman Britain demonstrates a sharp peak at 38 gestational weeks (full term) which is most readily explained through infanticide.69 Gowland and Chamberlain (2002) argued that this neonatal peak was in part an artefact of the ageing method used. They demonstrated that the infant remains represented a much greater spread of gestational ages, not incompatible with natural mortality. The peak at 38 weeks attained by Mays70 would be an improbable result even had infanticide been practiced because it would be highly unusual for such a high proportion of infants to be born at exactly 38 weeks, when in reality infants (whether born alive, still-born, or miscarried) are born at a much greater range of gestational ages. We maintain that neither the context nor the age-at-death distribution of these infants provides evidence to suggest that these infants died from any means other than natural causes. For late Roman Britain, the most likely explanation is that the burial of infants within settlements and houses is a specific funerary ritual associated with very young infants (Gowland, 2002). Across different cultures, past and present, the burial of infants within or close to settlements and buildings has been a common practice and need not result from nefarious activity. The age-at-death distribution of infants can also be used to determine whether extrinsic (environmental) or intrinsic (genetic) factors were responsible for their death.71 This can inform us about the nature of the living environment. Within a ‘healthy’ environment, one would usually expect neonatal mortality (first four weeks of life) to exceed post-neonatal mortality.72 A number of historians have described a rather grim picture of the health and environment of those living in urban conurbations in the Roman Empire, particularly the city Rome.73 Although not all historians agree on the extent to which conditions in Imperial Rome were hazardous for health, most concur that urban centres in the pre-industrial world were likely to have been unsanitary and parasites and infectious diseases would have been common.74 Such environments are likely to impact on maternal and thus fetal health but also on the health of the newborn infant. In such urban environments post-neonatal mortality has been shown to exceed neonatal mortality.75 Osteologically derived data from Roman London, the City of Rome and regional data from Roman Dorset, shows that post-partum factors (greater numbers of full-term individuals were present) were predominantly responsible for the mortality of infants.76 Although it is acknowledged that these results may be biased by differential age-related funerary strategies (see above).



A B ioarchae o l o gical P erspective o n the P re - A du lt S tages

121

Childcare and Health The dynamic interrelationship between maternal and child health was recognized during the Roman period,77 particularly the connections between the mother’s behaviour and the consequences for her child. The primary sources frequently concentrate on ‘bad behaviour’ such as drunkeness.78 Medical texts also recognized the potency of lead, both as method of abortion and contraception, but also as a poison which could result in miscarriage and physical and mental disabilities in the offspring.79 Soranus also admonishes upper class women for the cessation of breastfeeding too early and the use of wet nurses as detrimental to infant health.80 A number of infectious diseases are able to pass through the placenta and cause disease in the growing foetus,81 though many will not be detectable in the skeletons. Some diseases result in premature or stillbirth (e.g. malaria), while many others will have only affected the soft-tissue (e.g. rubella), or individuals may have died before an osseous response could be initiated.82 The fifth century infant cemetery from Umbria is a dramatic illustration of the affect of malaria on infants. Twenty-two of the 47 infants recovered from this site were thought to have been premature.83 Pregnant women suffering from malaria are more likely to give birth to low birth weight infants. Ancient DNA evidence for Plasmodium falciparum (malaria) was recovered from one of the infants who also exhibited pathological lesions known as porotic hyperostosis (sieve-like holes in the orbits and skull) also associated with malaria.84 One infectious disease that crosses the placenta and can manifest itself in the skeleton at birth is the venereal form treponematosis – syphilis.85 On current published evidence, only one sub-adult example of congenital syphilis has been cautiously identified from the Roman period. In the Costebelle cemetery in Hyères (Var, France) an adult female burial dating from the fourth century AD was discovered to have the skeleton of a seven-month foetus within the pelvic cavity, indicating that she had died during pregnancy; examination of the foetal skeleton concluded that the type and distribution of skeletal changes were characteristic of congenital syphilis.86 The media have recently reported on twins with congenital syphilis from Pompeii, but this has yet to be published.87 Pregnancy and childbirth was always a very risky undertaking in the Roman world (as in all pre-industrial, pre-medical societies), with many examples of females who died during pregnancy or childbirth evidenced in the archaeological and epigraphic record;88 for example, a 16-year-old female from Herculaneum who died 7 months into her pregnancy.89 The perils of childbirth were well known to Roman medicine, particularly the risks of a breech birth or the delivery of a still-born baby; and surgical interventions were developed to cope with these problems.90 On present evidence, the only example of this form of surgery (embryotomy) is in a full-term individual (40 weeks old) from Poundbury Camp in Dorset, who displayed a series of cut-marks distributed throughout their torso, arms and legs (Figure 7.3).91 The individual was buried in a wooden

122

Families in the R oman and L ate A ntiq u e R oman Wo rld

Figure 7.3  Evidence for the embryotomy procedure observed in a full-term individual from Poundbury Camp (England) © The Natural History Museum, London



A B ioarchae o l o gical P erspective o n the P re - A du lt S tages

123

coffin, with the head and one arm placed below the pelvis and the other arm and leg by the right shoulder.92 This highly complex procedure, described by Soranus, was only undertaken when abortives and manual attempts had failed to remove a foetus which had died in utero, because it placed the mother’s life in extreme danger.93 Flemming’s (2000) research suggests that the procedure may have been carried out by a female doctor, as numerous practitioners throughout the Empire were women and they were more likely to manage female patients. The absence of evidence in other cemetery locales may arise from age-related differences in burial practices and modes of body disposal.94 If an infant survived the perils of birth, then (as discussed above) the environment into which they were born would have directly influenced their risk of disease and death. Lewis’(2002) overview of health differences between rural and urban populations, observes that health patterns will vary between the two, and demonstrates that although both settlement types will have similar types of diseases (e.g. tuberculosis) the prevalence will be higher in urban centres, because of larger population sizes and poorer living conditions.95 Additionally, recent research suggests that incorporation into the Roman Empire had a negative impact on health, which extended beyond the initial period of conquest. A regional comparison of health before and after the Roman conquest in Dorset (south-west England) discovered that post-conquest, child health declined and their morbidity and mortality risks were higher, because of the introduction of urban living environments and increased population migration.96 Studies indicate that urban settlements in Roman Britain resulted in higher levels of infectious and metabolic diseases and higher mortality risk for vulnerable individuals, because of dense housing, inadequate sanitation, a reliance on imported food and high population turnover.97 In addition to the wider living environment, the choices made by the care-giver would have impacted on an infant’s chances of survival. It is to be expected that within the Empire spatial and temporal differences existed in how children were cared for, particularly as so many diverse communities were incorporated within it.98 The first three years of a person’s life they are entirely dependent on others for food and protection. Until the age of 6, children lack the necessary skills to support their nutritional needs and still require a certain degree of protection to prevent accidents and disease.99 Cross-cultural studies show that societies recognize their vulnerable status and that these basic needs are met either by their parents, other family members or other carers within the community.100 From the second century BC, this period of dependency was explicitly recognized to be a vulnerable stage in the life course, and the morbidity and mortality risks were specifically addressed in Roman medical texts, and a series of amulets were worn for their protection.101 These texts, particularly the work of Celsus, observed that children had a high risk of becoming ill.102 The range of diseases observed in sub-adults less than 6 years old within the Roman Empire reflects the interrelationship between living environment, diet

124

Families in the R oman and L ate A ntiq u e R oman Wo rld

and childcare.103 Some individuals have osseous changes indicative of tuberculosis, a disease caught perhaps from their carer through droplet transmission or through the consumption of infected dairy products.104 The existence of this disease in Roman population also supports the evidence for the often unsanitary and crowded nature of settlements during this period. Trauma Evidence for trauma in sub-adults from the Roman world appears to fall into two distinct categories: intentional and accidental injuries. Differentiating between the two causative mechanisms can be problematic but can sometimes be inferred from the type of bone affected, the specific anatomical location of the fracture and the type of fracture (oblique, greenstick etc.).105 It should be noted that many traumas sustained by sub-adults will be obliterated by their growing skeleton, particularly greenstick or plastic fractures, where the bone will only sustain an incomplete break or bend in response to force.106 The evidence for intentional injuries, takes the form of fractures caused by direct blows and victims of physical child abuse today frequently exhibit fractures in different stages of healing indicative of repeated episodes of abuse over time.107 Several sub-adults from across the Roman world have been identified with injuries indicative of direct trauma. For example, a 2- to 3-year-old from the Kellis 2 cemetery in Egypt (AD 50–450) has healed fractures to the right and left ribs and to the left side of the pelvis, perimortem fractures (occurring around the time of death) to the right and left arms and right clavicle (collarbone), and new bone formation to the right forearm, left upper arm, scapulae and ribs.108 The growth of new bone can be stimulated by trauma to the soft-tissue,109 and combined with the presence of healed fractures and those sustained at the time of death, indicate that this child had been a victim of abuse.110 Interestingly, because the child in this case was mummified, a variety of body tissues could be used to additionally analyse health and diet.111 The delta 13 values of carbon (δ13C) (derived from plants i.e. cereal dietary contributions) at the time of death generally fall within the range of variation for other Kellis 2 children (aged between birth and 4 years).112 However, hair approximately 2 months prior to death, suggests possible use of illness food (i.e., millet gruel).113 The delta 15 values of nitrogen (δ15N) obtained from the nails is within the range for others of this age group at the site, while the skin value shows that the individual was still being breastfed. The δ15N hair values are depleted by about 6‰ from the skin values. Loss of nitrogen in the body can be caused by trauma, infection, and inadequate protein intake. Hair values for the protein B519 strongly indicate response to injury involving dietary protein as the osteoid source for the new bone formation.114 Evidence for direct trauma in sub-adults in the Roman Empire appears (on available published evidence) to have been predominantly identified in individuals less than 5 years old, particularly in those aged between full-term



A B ioarchae o l o gical P erspective o n the P re - A du lt S tages

125

Figure 7.4  Evidence for healing fractures in two ribs in an infant from Poundbury Camp, England © The Natural History Museum, London

and 3 years and has been reported from Britain115 and France.116 The majority of reported fractures were observed in the ribs (Figure 7.4), which is highly suggestive of these infants being shaken as the clinical literature shows that the majority of rib fractures are produced by intentional trauma.117 One adolescent (16 to 20 years old) from Imperial Rome has a healed depressed fracture to their parietal bone, indicating that they had received a direct blow to the head.118 Evidence for accidental injuries during childhood, such as those caused by falls have been reported in sub-adult and adult individuals119 from Britain,120 France,121 Italy,122 and Egypt.123 Weaning and Diet Newborn feeding strategies are vitally important for establishing early infant health. Roman medical texts allude to some hazardous practices such as the withholding of colostrum, a substance that helps establish the bacteria in the digestive tract and protect infants from viruses and bacteria.124 Further, as a substitute for colostrum, medical texts recommended feeding infants a mixture of water and honey, the latter which would expose them to botulism.125 Wet-nurses were also employed to feed both free and enslaved infants.126 If

126

Families in the R oman and L ate A ntiq u e R oman Wo rld

the wet nurse was nutritionally deficient in any way, or infected with a disease the feeding baby is likely to have suffered.127 If infants were unable to receive human milk, and were fed animal milk (cow, goat, sheep) they were also at risk of being infected with tuberculosis and brucellosis.128 Milk from animals does not provide the passive immunity inherent in breast milk and is not optimal in terms of nutrient content compared to human milk. Infants fed animal milk will have been more at risk of illness from pathogens and parasites as well as nutritional deficiencies. Fairgrieve and Molto, 2000, have argued that a weaning diet of goats milk in Roman Egypt was partly responsible for the frequency of

Figure 7.5 Radiograph of the femora and tibiae of a 1- to 2-year-old infant from Poundbury Camp (England) showing evidence for rickets © The Natural History Museum, London



A B ioarchae o l o gical P erspective o n the P re - A du lt S tages

127

pathological lesions (cribraorbitalia) observed at this site. In fact cribraorbitalia (small holes in the orbits of the skull) is by far the most common lesion observed in sub-adults across the Roman Empire, but particularly among Mediterranean populations. Most often these lesions have been linked to weaning practices and the almost exclusive use of cereal as a weaning food.129 Cereals are a poor source of iron and also inhibit the absorption of iron from other sources. Iron deficiency has long been linked to these particular skeletal lesions, though a recent study suggests that folate deficiency may be a more likely cause.130 In addition, there does also appear to be a link between these lesions and potentially malarious regions.131 The presence of specific metabolic diseases identified in individuals from Roman Britain132 and Italy133 shows that between the ages of 40 weeks old (fullterm) and 3 years old, many individuals suffered from vitamin D deficiency – rickets (Figure 7.5). The presence of this disease in these age-groups again emphasizes the relationship between mothers and children; if feeding mothers are deficient in vitamin D then their milk will not have sufficient levels of this vitamin. If the infant is fed with cows’ milk, this is also low in vitamin D and can increase an individual’s risk of developing rickets. Additionally, exclusive breastfeeding beyond 2 to 3 years old can lead to nutritional rickets.134 The risk of becoming vitamin D deficient is also related to the process of weaning. When foods such as cereals are introduced into the diet it increases the risk of infection from viruses and bacteria and this can lead to the development of diarrhoea or malnutrition.135 Sick individuals may have been kept indoors which prevented them from metabolizing sufficient levels of vitamin D by exposure to sunlight.136 As humans metabolize the majority of the vitamin D they need from sunshine, childcare practices such as swaddling would have had a significant effect.137 Scurvy, resulting from insufficient quantities of vitamin C in the diet,138 has also been observed in those less than 5 years old from a number of sites in Roman Britain (e.g. Poundbury in Dorset, London). It can be caused by their mothers or wet-nurses being malnourished making their milk inadequate or again, it may have been caused by the process of weaning, whereby an infant’s nutrition becomes compromised.139 Mobility The evidence for the mobility of individuals within the Roman Empire was previously only known from the primary sources (i.e. letters or tombstones). These sources show that people of all ages and sexes, from a variety of status and socio-economic groups, such as traders, military and enslaved people, regularly moved within the Empire and often travelled great distances.140 In recent years, the development of stable isotope studies has allowed us to independently examine mobility at the individual and population level. When different teeth from the same individual are sampled they can provide information pertaining to different stages of childhood (when the teeth were forming). When different skeletal tissues

128

Families in the R oman and L ate A ntiq u e R oman Wo rld

are sampled (e.g., teeth, compact bone from the femur, cancellous bone from the ribs) stable isotope evidence for mobility during different stages of the life course can be studied. In a recent volume published on Roman diasporas, 5 out of the 11 chapters examining mobility in the Roman Empire were concerned with skeletal evidence.141 The work of Prowse et al., 2007, has shown that individuals from the port of Isola Sacra near Rome migrated from locales to the north and east of Rome, and one individual may have travelled from North Africa as a child. Isotopic studies of Romano-British remains have shown that some sub-adult individuals travelled from the Mediterranean,142 while some of the adult population likely derived from the city of Rome, the Mediterranean and North Africa.143 In addition to stable isotope evidence ancient DNA is also of use for looking at mobility in the past, particularly when integrated with other biomolecular and archaeological evidence. Prowse et al.’s (2010) study of mitochondrial DNA and stable isotopes on a sample of individuals buried at Vagnari, South Italy showed that one adult male had a DNA signatures which demonstrated that he or a maternal ancestor had originated from East Asia and his stable isotope values showed that he along with 20 per cent of the people buried there were not local to the area.144 One key shortcoming of isotopic techniques of analysis relates to the fact that large swathes of geographic areas may yield a similar signal. So while an individual may have a ‘non-local’ signal, one cannot always, on the basis of this evidence alone, say definitively where they are from. Conversely, an individual with a ‘local’ isotope signal may in fact come from many miles away, but an area of similar geology and climate.145 Isotope information derived from adult skeletal remains can provide important direct information for mobility during childhood as well as later stages of the life course depending on the tissues sampled. This source of data when integrated with archaeological and other bioarchaeological information can provide a particularly rich seam of evidence for the migration and mobility of past individuals and groups.146

Conclusions The above has provided an overview of the current techniques of skeletal analysis and their applicability to the study of Roman childhood and the Roman family. As the examples above have shown, the analysis of sub-adult skeletal remains can provide information on a diverse range of subjects related to the cultural perceptions and experience of childhood including diet and weaning practices, general health in relation to living environment (e.g. urban versus rural), mobility during childhood and later life, and physical abuse. This array of information would be almost impossible to access from other archaeological or textual sources alone. The study and interpretation of the skeletal remains of children is not without its problems, not least taphonomic issues and methodological limitations which have been outlined above. However, all forms of



A B ioarchae o l o gical P erspective o n the P re - A du lt S tages

129

archaeological evidence are subject to such limitations. In our view, the study of the skeletal remains of children from the Roman world can make significant and unique contributions to our understanding of the environment in which they were born and the manner in which they were cared for. Such evidence is at its most valuable when properly integrated and contextualized as part of a multidisciplinary study. When attempting to access childhood in the past it is the remains themselves that often have the most to tell.

Notes *

Both authors would like to thank the editors of this volume for asking them to contribute on this topic. RR thanks Jenny Hall (MoL); past and present colleagues at the Centre for Human Bioarchaeology for their contributions to the WORD database; Natasha Powers and Chris Thomas (MoLA) for allowing access to the Roman Spitalfields report; Janet Montgomery (Durham University) for providing mobility information; Kristina Killgrove (North Carolina, Chapel Hill) for sharing unpublished information on her research. RG would like to thank Tim Thompson (Teesside University) for comments on an earlier draft of this paper. 1 Lewis, 2007. 2 Crawford, 1999. 3 Scheuer and Black, 2000, pp. 251–252. 4 Ibid., pp. 4–17. 5 Ibid. 6 Lewis, 2007, pp. 60–62, and Scheuer and Black, 2000. 7 Lewis, 2007, p. 133. 8 Wood et al., 1992. 9 Waldron, 1994. 10 Wood et al., 1992. 11 Chamberlain, 2006. 12 Wood et al., 1992, 345. 13 Hope, 2009. 14 Gowland, 2002. 15 Smith and Kahila, 1992. 16 Norman, 2002. 17 Lagia, 2007. 18 E.g. Bello et al., 2006; Walker et al., 1988; Lyman, 1999; Guy et al., 1997; and Duday, 2009. 19 Lewis, 2007, pp. 23–24. 20 Bello et al., 2006, 27–36. 21 Ibid., 27. 22 Pearce, 2008; Pearce et al., 2000; and Martin-Kilcher, 2000. 23 McKinley, 2006, p. 404; and Holck, 1997. 24 McKinley, 2006, p. 408. 25 Correia, 1997, p. 278. 26 McKinley, 2000. 27 Mc Kinley, 2006, p. 408. 28 Noy, 2000. See also Weekes, 2008. 29 See Lewis, 2007, pp. 47–55. 30 See Bogin, 2005, pp. 235–241; Boechat et al., 2001; Lewis, 2007, p. 38; and Halcrow et al., 2007. 31 Usher, 2002; and Scheuer and Black, 2000. 32 E.g. Kochhar and Richardson, 1998; and Ubelaker, 1989. 33 Mays, 1993, Smith and Kahila, 1992; and Gowland and Chamberlain, 2002. 34 Ulijaszek et al., 2000.

130

Families in the R oman and L ate A ntiq u e R oman Wo rld

35 Scheuer and Black, 2000. 36 Ibid. 37 Saunders and Hoppa, 1993. 38 Liversidge, 2008, pp. 234–235. 39 Wood et al., 1992. 40 Lewis, 1991. 41 Noy, 2010. 42 Lewis, 2007, p. 55 ; Leach et al., 2009; and Eckardt et al., 2010. 43 L’Engle Williams et al., 2005; and Ramsthaler et al., 2007. 44 Edgar and Hunley, 2009; Ousley et al., 2009; and Long et al., 2009. 45 Williams and Slice, in press. 46 See Keita, 2005; Keita and Kittles, 1997; and L’Engle Williams et al., 2005. 47 Lewis 2007, pp. 55–57. 48 Scott and Turner, 2000, pp. 131–242. 49 E.g. Kieser, 1984; and Thomas et al., 1986. 50 Katzenberg, 2008. 51 Katzenberg, 2008. 52 Amongst others, Prowse et al., 2007; Killgrove, 2010b; Montgomery et al., 2010; Redfern et al., 2010; and Chenery et al., 2010. 53 See Steckel 2009. 54 E.g. Kron, 2005; and Koepke and Baten, 2005. 55 Lewis, 2007, p. 77. 56 Humphrey, 1998; and Eveleth and Tanner, 1990. 57 Ulijaszek et al., 2000. 58 Ibid. 59 Saunders and Hoppa, 1993. 60 Ibid. 61 Ulijaszek et al., 2000. 62 Bogin, 2005, p. 71. 63 Ibid., pp. 297–299. 64 Ulijaszek et al., 2000. 65 Bogin, 2005, p. 301. 66 Saunders and Hoppa, 1993. 67 See Chamberlain, 2006. 68 E.g. Mays, 1993; Gowland and Chamberlain, 2002; and Mays, 2003. 69 Mays, 1993, 2003. 70 Ibid. 71 Lewis, 2007. 72 Lewis, 2007. 73 E.g. Scobie, 1986; and Scheidel, 2009, 2010. 74 Hope and Marshall, 2000; King, 2005; and Storey, 2006. 75 Lewis and Gowland, 2007. 76 Gowland and Redfern, 2010; and Redfern, 2007. 77 Flemming, 2000. 78 Abel, 1984. 79 Grout, 2010; and Retief, 2005. 80 See Prowse et al., 2008. 81 Kelmar et al., 1995. 82 Lewis, 2006. 83 Soren, 2003. 84 Sallares et al., 2004. 85 Lewis, 2007, pp. 151–159. 86 Pàlfi et al., 1995. 87 http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/world-europe-11952322 88 Carroll, 2006.



A B ioarchae o l o gical P erspective o n the P re - A du lt S tages

131

89 Bisel and Bisel, 2002; and Hope, 2009, p. 45. 90 Jackson, 2000; and Kapparis, 2002. 91 Redfern, 2007, 2010. 92 Farwell and Molleson, 1993. 93 Kapparis, 2002. 94 Pearce, 2001; Duday, 2009, pp. 58–71; and Rawson, 2003, pp. 341–343. 95 Redfern, 2003. 96 Redfern and DeWitte, 2010. 97 Gowland and Redfern, 2010; and Redfern and DeWitte, 2010. 98 Gowland and Redfern, 2010. 99 Bogin, 2005, pp. 71–75. 100 Barry and Paxon, 1971. 101 Bradley 2005, p. 71. 102 Ibid., p. 72. 103 Melikian and Waldron, 2003. Data derived from Gowland and Garnsey, 2010; Gowland and Redfern, 2010; Lewis, 2010; Redfern, 2007; Redfern and DeWitte, 2010; and Redfern and Roberts, 2005. 104 Roberts and Buikstra, 2003. 105 Lovell, 1997. 106 Glencross and Stuart-Macadam, 2000; and Lovell, 1997. 107 Walker, 1997. 108 Wheeler et al., 2007. 109 Walker et al., 1997. 110 Resnick and Goergen, 2002, pp. 2762–2765. 111 Wheeler et al., 2007. 112 Wheeler et al., 2007. 113 Wheeler et al., 2007. 114 Wheeler et al., 2007. 115 Lewis, 2010; Redfern, 2007; and Roberts and Cox, 2003. Italy: Killgrove, 2010a; and Soren et al., 1997. 116 Blondiaux et al., 2002. 117 Bulloch et al., 2000. 118 Killgrove, 2010a. 119 See Glencross and Stuart-Macadam, 2000. 120 Redfern, 2007, 2010; and Roberts and Cox, 2003. 121 Stead, 2006. 122 Killgrove, 2010a. 123 Wheeler, 2009. 124 Lewis, 2007, pp. 98–99. 125 Holman, 1998. 126 Bradley, 198;7 and Rawson, 2003, pp. 122–125. 127 Kelmar et al., 1995. 128 Lewis, 2007, pp. 98–99. 129 E.g. Fairgrieve and Molto, 2000; and Salvadei et al., 2001. 130 Walker et al., 2009. 131 See Gowland and Garnsey, 2010; and Gowland and Redfern, 2010. 132 Lewis, 2010; Redfern, 2007; Melikian and Waldron, 2003; Roberts and Cox, 2003; and Gowland and Redfern, 2010. 133 http://www.paleopatologia.it/articoli/aticolo.php?recordID=70 134 Brickley and Ives, 2008, pp. 82–86. 135 Lewis, 2007, pp. 98–99. 136 Brickley and Ives, 2008, pp. 77–81. 137 Ibid., 93. 138 Ibid., 41–47. 139 Ibid., 45; Lewis, 2007, pp. 98–99.

132

Families in the R oman and L ate A ntiq u e R oman Wo rld

140 Ibid. 141 Eckardt, 2010. 142 Richards et al., 1998. 143 Montgomery et al., 2010; Leach et al., 2009; and Chenery et al., 2010. 144 Prowse et al., 2010. 145 Budd et al., 2003. 146 Sealy et al., 1995.

Bibliography Abel, E. L. (1984), Fetal Alcohol Syndrome and Fetal Alcohol Effects, New York: Plenum Press. Adams, C. and Laurence, R. (eds) (2005), Travel and Geography in the Roman Empire, London: Routledge. Alqahtani, S. J. (2008), Atlas of Tooth Development and Eruption, Barts and the London School of Medicine and Dentistry. London: Queen Mary University of London. MClinDent. http://www.dentistry.qmul.ac.uk/atlas%20of%20 tooth%20development%20and%20eruptionindex.html (Accessed 12 June 2010). Aufderheide, A. C. and Rodriquez-Martin, C. (1998), The Cambridge Encyclopedia of Human Paleopathology, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Baker, B., Dupras, T. L. and Tocheri, M. W. (2005), Osteology of Infants and Children, Texas: Texas A&M University. Barry, H. and Paxon, L. M. (1971), ‘Infancy and early childhood: cross-cultural codes 2’, Ethnology, 10, 466–508. Bello, S. M., Thomann, A., Signoli, M., Dutour, O. and Andrews, P. (2006), ‘Age and sex biases in the reconstruction of past population structures’, American Journal of Physical Anthropology, 129, 24–38. Bisel, C. and Bisel, J. E. (2002), ‘Health and nutrition at Herculaneum: an examination of skeletal remains’, in Jashemski, W. F. and Meyer, F. G. (eds), The Natural History of Pompeii, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Blondiaux, G., Blondiaux, J., Secousse, F., Cotten, A., Danze, P.-M. and Filiop, R.-M.(2002), ‘Rickets and child abuse: the case of a two year old girl from the 4th century Lisieux (Normandy)’, International Journal of Osteoarchaeology, 12, 209–215. Boechat, M. S., Pietka, E., Huang, H. K. and Gilsanz, V. (2001), ‘Skeletal age determinationsin children of European and African descent: applicability of the Greulich and Pyle standards’, Pediatric Research, 50, 624–628. Bogin, B. (2005), Patterns of Human Growth, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Bradley, K. R. (1987), ‘Wet-nursing at Rome: a study in social relations’, in Rawson, B. (ed.), The Family in Ancient Rome, Cornell: Cornell University Press.



A B ioarchae o l o gical P erspective o n the P re - A du lt S tages

133

Brickley, M. and Ives, R. (2008), The Bioarchaeology of Metabolic Bone Disease, London: Academic Press. Budd, P., Millard, A., Chenery, C., Lucy, S. and Roberts, C. (2003), ‘Investigating population movement by stable isotope analysis: a report from Britain’, Antiquity, 74, 127–141. Bulloch, B., Schubert, C. J., Brophy, P. D., Johnson, N. and Reed, M. H. (2000), ‘Cause and clinical characteristics of rib fractures in infants’, Pediatrics, 105, 48. Carroll, M. (2006), Spirits of the Dead: Roman Funerary Commemoration in Western Europe, Oxford: Oxford University Press. Chamberlain, A. (2006), Demography in Archaeology, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Chenery, C., Müldner, G., Eckardt, H. and Lewis, M. (2010), ‘Strontium and stable isotopeevidence for diet and mobility in Roman Gloucester, UK’, Journal of Archaeological Science, 37, 150–163. Correia, P. M. M. (1997), ‘Fire modification of bone: a review of the literature’, in Haglund, W. D. and Sorg, M. H. (eds), Forensic Taphonomy: the Postmortem Fate of Human Remains, London: CRC Press. Cunha, E. and Pinheiro, J. (2009), ‘Antemortem trauma’, in Blau, S. and Ubelaker, D. H. (eds), Handbook of Forensic Aanthropology and Archaeology, California: Walnut Creek. Duday, H. 2009. The Archaeology of the Dead. Lectures in Archaeothanatology, Oxford: Oxbow Books. Eckardt, H., Chenery, C., Leach, S., Lewis, M., Müldner, G. and Nimmo, E. (2009), ‘A long way from home: diaspora communities in Roman Britain’, in Eckardt, H. (ed.), ‘Roman Diasporas. Archaeological Approaches to Mobility and Diversity in the Roman Empire’, Portsmouth: Journal of Roman Archaeology, Supplementary series, 78, pp. 99–130. Elliott, M. and Collard, M. (2009), ‘Fordisc and the determination of ancestry from cranial measurements’, Biology Letters, 23, (5/6), 849–852. Edgar, H. J. H. and Hunley, K. L. (2009), ‘Race reconiled?: How biological anthropologists view human variation’, American Journal of Physical Anthropology, 139, 1–4. Eveleth, P. B. and Tanner, J. M. (1990), Worldwide Variation in Human Growth, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Fairgrieve, S. I. and Molto, J. E. (2000), ‘Cribra orbitalia in two temporally disjunct population samples from the Dakhleh Oasis, Egypt’, American Journal of Physical Anthropology, 111, 319–331. Flemming, R. (2000), Medicine and the Making of Roman Women: Gender, Nature and Authority from Celsus and Galen, Oxford: Oxford University Press. Glencross, B. and Stuart-Macdam, P. (2000), ‘Childhood trauma in the archaeological trauma’, International Journal of Osteoarchaeology, 10, 198–209. Gowland, R. and Chamberlain, A. T. (2002), ‘A Bayesian approach to ageing

134

Families in the R oman and L ate A ntiq u e R oman Wo rld

perinatal skeletal remains from archaeological sites: implications for the evidence for infanticide in Roman Britain’, Journal of Archaeological Science, 29, 677–685. Gowland, R. and Garnsey, P. (2010), ‘Skeletal evidence for health, nutritional status and malaria in Rome and the empire’, Eckardt, H. (ed.), Roman Diasporas. Archaeological Approaches to Mobility and Diversity in the Roman Empire, Portsmouth: Journal of Roman Archaeology, Supplementary series, 78, 131–156. Gowland, R. L. and Redfern, R. C. (2010), ‘Childhood health in the Roman World: perspectives from the centre and margin of the Empire’, Childhood in the Past: An International Journal, 3, (1), 15–42. Grout, J. (2010), Encyclopaedia Romana,http://penelope.uchicago.edu/~grout/ encyclopaedia_romana/index.html (Accessed 27 July 2010). Guy, H., Masset, C. and Baud, C.-A. (1997), ‘Infant taphonomy’, International Journal of Osteoarchaeology, 7, 221–229. Halcrow, S. E., Tayles, N. and Buckley, H. R. (2007), ‘Age estimation of children from prehistoric Southeast Asia: are the dental formation methods used appropriate?’, Journal of Archaeological Science, 34, 1158–1168. Holck, P. (1997), ‘Why are small children so seldom found in cremations?’, in Smits, E., Iregen, E. and Dursini, A. G. (eds), Cremation studies in archaeology. Logos: Saonara. Holman, S. R. (1998), ‘Infant feeding in Roman antiquity: prescription and risk’, Nutrition Today, 33, 113–120. Hope, V. (2009), Roman Death. The Dying and the Dead in Ancient Rome, London: Continuum. Hope, V. M. and Mashall, E. (eds), Death and Disease in the Ancient City. London: Routledge. Huijbregts, S. K., Tavecchio, L., Leseman, P. and Hoffenaar, P. (2009), ‘Child rearing in a group setting. Beliefs of Dutch, Caribbean Dutch, and Mediterranean Dutch caregivers in ccenter-based child care’, Journal of CrossCultural Psychology, 40, 797–815. Humphrey, L. T. (1998), Patterns of growth in the modern human skeleton, American Journal of Physical Anthropology, 105, 57–72. Jackson, R. (2000), Doctors and Diseases in the Roman Empire, London: British Museum Press. Kapparis, K. (2002), Abortion in the Ancient World, London: Gerald Duckworth & Co Ltd. Katzenberg, M. A. (2008), ‘Stable isotope analysis: a tool for studying past diet, demography, and life history’, in Katzenberg, M. A. and Saunders, S. R. (eds), Biological Anthropology of the Human Skeleton, (2nd edn), London: Wiley-Liss. Keita, S. O. Y. (2005), ‘Early Nile Valley farmers from El-Badari: Aboriginals or ‘European’ Agro-Nostratic immigrants? Craniometric affinities considered with other data’, Journal of Black Studies, 36, 191–208.



A B ioarchae o l o gical P erspective o n the P re - A du lt S tages

135

Keita, S. O. Y. and Kittles, R. A. (1997), ‚The persistance of racial thinking and the myth of racial divergence’, American Anthropologist, 99, 534–544. Kelmar, C. J. H., Harvey, D. and Simpson, C. (1995), The Sick Newborn Baby, London: Bailliere Tindall. Kieser, J. A. (1984), ‘An analysis of the Carabelli trait in the mixed deciduous and permanent human dentition’, Archives of Oral Biology, 29, 403–406. Killgrove, K. (2010a), Migration and Mobility in Imperial Rome, PhD, University of North Carolina, Chapel Hill. —(2010b), ‘Identifying immigrants to imperial Rome using strontium isotope analysis’, in Eckardt, H. (ed.), Roman Diasporas. Archaeological Approaches to Mobility and Diversity in the Roman Empire, Portsmouth: Journal of Roman Archaeology, Supplementary series, 78, 157–174. King, H. (ed.) (2005), Health in Antiquity, London: Routledge. Kochhar, R. and Richardson, A. (1998), ‘The chronology and sequence of eruption of human permanent teeth in Northern Ireland’, International Journal of Paediatric Dentistry, 8, 243–252. Koepke, N., and Baten, J. (2005), ‘The biological standard of living in Europe during the last two millennia’, European Review of Economic History, 9, 61–96. Kron, G. (2005), ‘Anthropometry, physical anthropology, and the reconstruction of ancient health, nutrition, and living standards’, Historia, 54, 68–83. L’Engle Williams, F., Belcher, R. L. and Armelagos, G. J. (2005), ‘Forensic misclassification of ancient Nubian crania: implications for assumptions about human variation’, Current Anthropology, 46, 340–346. Lagia, A. (2007), ‘Notions of childhood in the Classical Polis: evidence from the bioarchaeological record’, in Cohen, A. and Rutter, J. B. (eds), Constructions of Childhood in Ancient Greece and Italy, Hesperia Supplement, 41, Athens: ASCSA. Leach, S., Lewis, M., Chenery, C., Müldner, G. and Eckardt, H. (2009), ‘Migration and diversity in Roman Britain: a multidisciplinary approach to the identification of immigrants in Roman York, England’, American Journal of Physical Anthropology, 140, 546–561. Lewis, A. B. (1991), ‘Comparisons between dental and skeletal ages’, Angle Orthodontist, 61, 87–92. Lewis, M. (2002), ‘A comparison of health in past rural, urban and industrial England’, in Murphy, P. and Wiltshire, P. E. J. (eds), The Environmental Archaeology of Industry. Symposia of the Association for Environmental Archaeology, Oxford: Oxbow Books. Lewis, M. E. (2006), ‘Nonadult palaeopathology: current status and future potential’, in Cox, M. and Mays, S. (eds), Human Osteology in Archaeology and Forensic Science, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. —(2007), The Bioarchaeology of Children, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.

136

Families in the R oman and L ate A ntiq u e R oman Wo rld

—(2010), ‘Life and death in a civitas capital: Metabolic disease and trauma in the children from Late Roman Dorchester, Dorset’, American Journal of Physical Anthropology, 142, 405–416. Lewis, M. E. and Flavel, A. (2006), ‘Age assessment of child skeletal remains in forensic contexts’, in Schmitt, A., Cunha, E. and Pinheiro, J. (eds), Forensic Anthropology and Medicine Complementary Sciences from Rrecovery to Cause of Death, UK: Humana Press. Liversidge, H. (2008), ‘Dental age revisited’, in Irish, J. D. and Nelson, G. C. (eds), Technique and Application in Dental Anthropology, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Long, J. C., Li, J. and Healy, M. E. (2009), ‘Human DNA sequences: more variation and less race’, American Journal of Physical Anthropology, 139, 23–34. Lovell, N. C. (1997), ‘Trauma analysis in paleopathology’, Yearbook of Physical Anthropology, 40, 139–170. Lyman, R. L. (1999), Vertebrate Taphonomy, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Martin-Kilcher, S. (2000), ‘‘Mors immatura’ in the Roman world: a mirror of society and tradition’, in Pearce, J. (ed.), Burial, Society and Context in the Roman World, Oxford: Oxbow Book. Mays, S. (1993), ‘Infanticide in Roman Britain’, Antiquity, 67, 883–888. —(2003), ‘Comment on ‘A Bayesian approach to ageing perinatal skeletal remains from archaeological sites: implications for the evidence for infanticide in Roman Britain’ by R Gowland and A Chamberlain’, Journal of Archaeological Science, 30, 1695–1700. McKinley, J. I. (2000), ‘‘Phoenix rising’: aspects of cremation in Roman Britain’, in Pearce, J., Millett, M. and Struck, M. (eds), Burial, Society and Context in the Roman World, Oxford: Oxbow Books. —(2006), ‘The analysis of cremated bone’, in Cox, M. and Mays, S. (eds) Human Osteology in Archaeology and Forensic Science, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Melikian, M. and Waldron, T. (2003), ‘An examination of skulls from two British sites forpossible evidence of scurvy’, International Journal of Osteoarchaeology, 13, 207–212. Montgomery, J., Evans, J. A., Chenery, S. R., Pashley, V. and Killgrove, K. (2010), ‘‘Gleaming, white and deadly’: using lead to track human exposure and geographic origins in the Roman period in Britain’, in Eckhardt, H. (ed.), Roman Diasporas. Archaeological. Approaches to Mobility and Diversity in the Roman Empire, Portsmouth: Journal of Roman Archaeology, Supplementary series, 78, 157–174. Moorrees, C. F. A., Fanning, E. A. and Hunt, E. F. (1963a), ‘Age variation of formation stages for ten permanent teeth’, Journal of Dental Research, 42, 1490–1502. —(1963b), ‘Formation and resorption of three deciduous teeth in children’, American Journal of Physical Anthropology, 21, 205–213.



A B ioarchae o l o gical P erspective o n the P re - A du lt S tages

137

Norman, N. J. (2002), ‘Death and burial of Roman children: the case of the Yasmina cemetery at Carthage – Part I, setting the stage’, Mortality, 7, 302–323. Noy, D. (2000), ‘‘Half-burnt on an emergency pyre’: Roman cremations which went wrong’, Greece & Rome, 47, 186–196. —(2010), ‘Epigraphic evidence for immigrants at Rome and in Roman Britain’, Eckardt, H. (ed.), Roman Diasporas. Archaeological Approaches to Mobility and Diversity in the Roman Empire, Portsmouth: Journal of Roman Archaeology, Supplementary series, 78, 13–26. Ortner, D. J. (2003), Identification of pathological conditions in human skeletal remains, London: Academic Press. Ousley, S., Jantz, R. and Fried, D. (2009), ‘Understanding race and human variation: why forensic anthropologists are good at identifying race’, American Journal of Physical Anthropology, 139, 68–76. Pàlfi, G., Dutour, O., Borreani, M., Brun, J. P. and Berato, J. (1995), ‘ ‘‘Birthday present” to the columbus’s anniversary: congenital syphilis from the late antiquity in France’, in Batista,.R., Campillo, D. and Carreras, T. (eds), Proceedings of the IXth European Meeting of the Paleopathology Association (Barcelona, 1st–4th September, 1992), Barcelona: Museu. D’Arqueologia de Catalunya. Pearce, J. (2001), ‘Infants, cemeteries and communities in the Roman provinces’, in Davies, G., Gardner, A. and Lockyear, K. (eds), TRAC 2000. Proceedings of the Tenth Annual Theoretical Roman Archaeology Conference, London 2000, Oxford: Oxbow Books. —(2008), ‘Burial evidence from Roman Britain. The un-numbered dead’, Pour une Archaeologie du Rite. Nouvelles Perspectives de l’Archaeologie Funeraire. Etudes Reunies par John Scheid, Paris: Collection de L’Ecole Française de Rome. Pearce, J., Millett, M. and Struck, M. (eds) (2000), Burial, society and context in the Roman world, Oxford: Oxbow Books. Prowse, T. L., Barta, J. L., Von Hunnius, T. E. and Small, A. M. (2010), Stable isotope and mtDNA evidence for geographic origins at the site of Vagnari, South Italy’, in Eckhradt, H. (ed.), Roman Diasporas. Archaeological Approaches to Mobility and Diversity in the Roman Empire, Portsmouth: Journal of Roman Archaeology, Supplementary series, 78, 157–174. Prowse, T. L., Schwarcz, H. P., Garnsey, P., Knyf, M., Macchiarelli, R. and Bondioli, L. (2007), ‘Isotopic evidence for age-related immigration to Imperial Rome’, American Journal of Physical Anthropology, 132, 510–519. —(2008), ‘Isotopic and dental evidence for infant and young child feeding practices in an imperial Roman skeletal sample’, American Journal of Physical Anthropology, 133, 294–308. Ramsthaler, F., Kreutz, K. and Verhoff, M. A. (2007), ‘Accuracy of metric sex analysis of skeletal remains using Fordisc based on a recent skull collection’, International Journal of Legal Medicine, 121, (6), 477–482.

138

Families in the R oman and L ate A ntiq u e R oman Wo rld

Rawson, B. (2003), Children and Childhood in Roman Italy, Oxford: Oxford University Press. Redfern, R. (2003), ‘Sex and the city: a biocultural investigation into female health in Roman Britain’, in Carr, G., Swift, E. and Weekes, J. (eds), TRAC 2002. Proceedings of the Twelfth Annual Theoretical Roman Archaeology Conference, Canterbury 2002, Oxford: Oxbow Books. Redfern, R. C. (2007), ‘The influence of culture upon childhood: an osteological study of Iron Age and Romano-British Dorset’, in Harlow, M. and Laurence, R. (eds), Age and Ageing in the Roman Empire, Portsmouth: Journal of Roman Archaeology Supplementary Series. —(2010), ‘A regional examination of surgery and fracture treatment in Iron Age and Roman Britain’, International Journal of Osteoarchaeology, 20, 443–471. Redfern, R. C. and Dewitte, S. (2010), ‘A new approach to the study of Romanization in Britain: a regional perspective of cultural change in late Iron Age and Roman Dorset using the Siler and Gompertz-Makeham models of mortality’, American Journal of Physical Anthropology, forthcoming. Redfern, R. C., Hamlin, C. and Beavan Athfield, N. (2010), ‘Temporal changes in diet: a stable isotope analysis of late Iron Age and Roman Dorset, Britain’, Journal of Archaeological Science, 37, 1149–1160. Resnick, D. and Goergen, T. G. (2002), ‘Physical injury: concepts and terminology’, in Resnick, D. (ed.), Diagnosis of Bone and Joint Disorders, (4th edn), Philadelphia: WB Saunders. Retief, F. P. (2005), ‘Lead poisoning in ancient Rome’, Acta Theologica Suppplementum, 7, 147–164. Richards, M. P., Molleson, T. L., Vögel, J. C. and Hedges, R. E. M. (1998), ‘Stable isotope analysis reveals variations in human diet at the Poundbury Camp cemetery site’, Journal of Archaeological Science, 25, 1247–1252. Roberts, C. and Cox, M. (2003), Health and Disease in Britain: From Prehistory to the Present Day, Stroud: Sutton Publishing Ltd. Roberts, C. and Manchester, K. (2005), The Archaeology of Disease, Stroud: Sutton Publishing Ltd. Roberts, C. A. and Buikstra, J. E. (2003), The Bioarchaeology of Tuberculosis. A Global View on a Reemerging Disease, Florida: University Press of Florida. Sallares, R., Bouwman, A. and Anderung, C. (2004), ‘The spread of malaria to southern Europe in antiquity: new approaches to old problems’, Medical History, 48, 311–328. Salvadei, L., Ricci, F., Manzi, G. (2001), ‘Porotic hyperostosis as a marker of health and nutritional conditions during childhood: studies at the transition between Imperial Rome and the early Middle Ages’, American Journal of Human Biology, 13, 709–717. Saunders, S. R. and Hoppa, R. D. (1993), ‘Growth deficit in survivors and non-survivors: biological mortality bias in subadult skeletal samples’, Yearbook of Physical Anthropology, 36, 127–151.



A B ioarchae o l o gical P erspective o n the P re - A du lt S tages

139

Schaefer, M., Black, S. and Scheuer, L. (2009), Juvenile Osteology. A Laboratory and Field Manual, London: Academic Press. Scheidel, W. (1996), ‘Measuring sex, age and death in the Roman empire: explorations inancient demography’, Journal of Roman Archaeology, Supplement 21. —(2009), ‘Disease and death in the ancient city of Rome’, Princeton/Stanford Working Papers in Classics. —(2010), ‘Physical wellbeing in the Roman world’, Princetone/Stanford Working Papers in Classics. Scheuer, L. and Black, S. (2000), Developmental Juvenile Osteology, London: Academic Press. Schour, I. and Massler, M. (1941), ‘The development of the human dentition’, Journal of the American Dental Association, 28, 1153–1160. Scobie, A. (1986), ‘Slums, sanitation, and mortality in the Roman world’, Klio, 68, 399–433. Scott, G. R. and Turner II, C. G. (2000), The Anthropology of Modern Human Teeth. Dental Morphology and its Variation in Recent Human Populations, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Sealy, J., Armstrong, R. and Schrire, C. (1995), ‘Beyond lifetime averages: tracing life histories through isotopic analysis of different calcified tissues from archaeological human skeletons’, Antiquity, 69, 290–300. Smith, B. H. (1991), ‘Standards of human tooth formation and dental age assessment’, in Kelly, M. A. and Larsen, C. S. (eds), Advances in Dental Anthropology, New York: Wiley-Liss. Smith, P. and Kahila, G. (1992), ‘Identification of infanticide in archaeological sites: a case study from the late Roman-early Byzantine periods at Ashkelon, Isreal’, Journal of Archaeological Science, 19, 667–675. Soren, D. (2003), ‘Can archaeologists excavate evidence of malaria?’, World Archaeology, 35, 193–209. Soren, D., Fenton, T. and Birkby, W. (1997), ‘The late Roman infant cemetery near Lugnano in Teverina, Italy: some implications’, Journal of Paleopathology, 7, 13–42. Stead, S. (2006), ‘Human and animal bones’, in Stead, I., Flouest, J.-L. and Rigby, V. (eds), Iron Age and Roman Burials in Champagne, Oxford: Oxbow Books. Steckel, R. H. (2009), ‘Heights and human welfare: recent developments and new directions’, Explorations in Economic History, 46, 1–23 Stoery, G. R. (ed.) (2006), Urbanism in the Preindustrial World. Cross-Cultural Approaches, Tuscaloosa: The University of Alabama Press. Thomas, C. J., Kotze, T. J. V. W. and Nash, J. M. (1986), ‚The carabelli trait in the mixed deciduous and permanent dentitions of five South African populations’, Archives of Oral Biology, 31, 145–147. Uberlaker, D. H. (1989), Human Skeletal Remains: Excavation, Analysis and Interpretation, Chicago: Aldine Publishing Company.

140

Families in the R oman and L ate A ntiq u e R oman Wo rld

Ulijazsek, S. J., Johnson, F. E. and Preece, M. A. (2000), The Cambridge Encyclopedia of Human Growth and Development, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Usher, B. M. (2002), Reference samples: the first step in linking biology and age in the human skeleton, in Hoppa, R. D. and Vaupel, J. W. (eds), Paleodemography. Age Distributions from Skeletal Samples, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Waldron, T. (1994), Counting the Dead: the Epidemiology of Skeletal Populations, Chichester: John Wiley & Sons. Walker, P. L., Bathurst, R. R., Richman, R., Gjerdrum, T. and Andrushko, V. A. (2009), ‘The causes of porotic hyperostosis and cribraorbitalia: a reappraisal of the iron deficiency-anemia hypothesis’, American Journal of Physical Anthropology, 139, 109–125. Walker, P. L., Cook, D. C. and Lambert, P. M. (1997), Skeletal evidence for child abuse: a physical anthropological perspective, Journal of Forensic Sciences, 42, 196–207. Walker, P. L., Johnson, J. R. and Lambert, P. M. (1988), Age and sex biases in the preservation of human skeletal remains, American Journal of Physical Anthropology, 76, 183–188. Weekes, J. (2008), Classification and analysis of archaeological contexts for the reconstruction of early Romano-British cremation burials, Britannia, 39, 145–160. Wheeler, S. (2009), Bioarchaeology of Infancy and Childhood at the Kellis 2 Cemetery, PhD thesis: University of Western Ontario. Wheeler, S. M., Williams, L., Beauchesne, P. and MOLTO, J. E. (2007), Fractured childhood: a case of probable child abuse from ancient Egypt, Society for Archaeological Sciences Bulletin, 30, 6–9. Williams, S. E. and Slice, D. E. (in press), Regional shape change in adult facial bone curvature with age, American Journal of Physical Anthropology. Wood, J. W., Milner, G. R., Harpending, H. C. and Weiss, K. M. (1992), The osteological paradox. Problems of inferring prehistoric health from skeletal samples, Current Anthropology, 33, 343–370.

8

Roman Family Reliefs and the Commemoration of Work: Text, Images and Ideals1 Lena Larsson Lovén In the first century BC  Roman society experienced a significant increase in the commissioning of funerary monuments from a wider social spectrum than in previous centuries. Memorials varied in size and shape according to the commissioner’s social and economic status but all with the same purpose: to preserve the memory of a deceased individual for future generations and to demonstrate various aspects of his or her status. A regular memorial type, especially for people of manumitted status, was a relief with a window-like arrangement commemorating a group of people, with men and women of various ages including both adults and children; these are often interpreted as family groups.2 Such portrait scenes could also be completed with iconographic symbols or inscriptions that gave the viewer somewhat more detailed information about the social identities of the deceased. One such agency that occurs both visually and in text is references to work. In Roman Italy, an epigraphy as well as an iconography of work gradually evolved in the later Roman Republic, especially during the first century BC.3 This is parallel in time to the more extensive practice of erecting memorials even among lower social strata but both in epigraphy and in iconography the examples with work references constitute only a minor part.4 This chapter will discuss a small number of funerary reliefs from the city of Rome with representations of family groups and references to work. The various social groupings represented in the extensive number of funerary monuments from Late Republican and Early Imperial Rome is reflected in the variety of memorial types, from small funerary plaques of only a few lines of text to grand scale monuments of architectural design, including both sculptural decoration and longer inscriptions. However, any memorial type communicates several aspects of status and social identities. Scale was one very obvious way of demonstrating the economic means of the commissioner, and often the size of a monument was also indicative of the social status of the buried person(s).5 The location of the monument within the cemetery or in relation to the road was another important marker of status. However, neither the size nor the location of a memorial automatically reveals the full picture of a commissioner’s social status. The additional information from iconography and epigraphy can tell us more and for instance the choice of elements in the decoration or the contents of an inscription will, for all its brevity, tell a great deal about the deceased.

142

Families in the R oman and L ate A ntiq u e R oman Wo rld

Figure 8.1  Present state of the tomb of Eurysaces, the baker, at Porta Maggiore, Rome. Photograph by the author



R oman Family R eliefs and the C ommem o ratio n o f Wo rk

143

One well-known memorial which can be used as an example of a large scale memorial and a commissioner who was a non-aristocrat is the memorial of the baker Eurysaces who built a lavish funerary monument outside the Porta Maggiore in Rome.6 (Fig. 8.1.) This was a prestigious location in a burial area where two ancient main roads met, the Via Labicana and the Via Praenestina. To judge from the scale of the memorial, Eurysaces was a wealthy man and based on information from the inscription and the decoration of the monument, it seems his fortune emanated from an occupational life as a baker, pistor, and a contractor, redemptor.7 The size of this monument bears witness of the commissioner’s financial capacity but, as has recently been argued by Laureen Hackworth-Peterson, the decoration of the memorial, with scenes from a bakery mirroring a business life, would not lead an ancient viewer to mistake Eurysaces for an aristocrat.8 This funerary monument is an example where references to work occur both in text (pistor and redemptor) and in iconography (the bakery scenes) and indicates that in certain social classes a job might provide an important part of an individual’s social identity.

Family Groups and the Commemoration of Work The limited number of framed funerary reliefs representing the combination of group portraits and references to an occupational life are all of a much more modest scale than the exceptional funerary monument of Eurysaces and as such they represent a more standardized form of commemoration from the period. All reliefs discussed below originate from the city of Rome and the parameters in time are the last decades of the Roman Republic to the reign of Augustus. During this period family groups formed a regular motif in the sculptural decoration on memorials and there is an extensive number of visual representations preserved of what may be interpreted as various constellations of families. This can be seen in contrast to the relatively few examples where visual representation of work occurs and the ones with both a family group and work references are even rarer. The admittedly small sample of examples which forms the basis of discussion here has been selected from a much more extensive investigation of funerary reliefs from the city of Rome. The criteria for the sampling of the evidence discussed in this chapter were to map funerary images with the combination of groups of a minimum of three people represented together and interpreted as families, and with references to work, either in text or in image or with a combination of both text and image. The result was the four reliefs of the Gavii, the Clodii, the Antestii and the Ampudii. They represent various familial constellations of both extended and core families and embrace both textual and visual representations of work. There are other examples of funerary monuments with work references such as the above mentioned tomb of Eurysaces, the tomb of the Haterii as well as funerary reliefs

144

Families in the R oman and L ate A ntiq u e R oman Wo rld

but as they do not match the criteria for the evidence on which this paper is based they are not discussed at length here.9 Each of the four selected reliefs will be discussed in detail below with the purpose of analyzing how textual and visual work references were used in relation to family groups in a funerary context and, furthermore, to see how the combination of family and work operated as markers of gender roles, social class, ideals and identities. Family Groups and Work in Inscriptions The Gavii The first example to be discussed here is a complete, framed marble slab in a cloister wall in the church of S.  Giovanni in Laterano in Rome. It represents four persons, of which three are male and one is female10 (Figure 8.2). The woman and two of the men are adults while the third male is a child. The four persons are all identified by name through the inscription below the portraits.11 The man to the left in the picture is C. Cavius Dardanus, on his right side is the child C. Cavius Rufus, the woman is Cavia Asia and the fourth person, another adult man, is C. Cavius Salvius.12 The part of the inscription placed in the space above the portraits tells us that Dardanus, the boy and the woman were all alive, vivit, when the memorial was created. There is no such information for the man on the right, Salvius, and his death may therefore be the immediate cause for ordering a family memorial. The upper part of the inscription further tells us that Dardanus and Salvius were two brothers (duo fratres). There is no further epigraphic information about the family relations of the other persons but an

Figure 8.2  The funerary relief of the Gavii, S. Giovanni in Laterano, Rome. Photograph by the author



R oman Family R eliefs and the C ommem o ratio n o f Wo rk

145

iconographic reading of the boy, Cavius Rufus, and the woman Cavia Asia, is that they are the son and the wife of Dardanus, to the left in the picture. Thus, they form a core family group of parents-child in the more extended family group including Salvius, the brother of Dardanus.13 From the addition of L(ibertus/-a) to the personal names, it is clear from the inscription that the adults are all freed people and that all four share the family name Cavius. In addition to the boy’s personal name is the notification of ‘spurius filius’ which signifies his status of illegitimate birth. A possible interpretation is that he was born when his mother, Asia, was still a slave and may have been living in an informal ‘marital’ arrangement with the carpenter Dardanus. Cohabitation between Roman slaves was commonly practiced and would often result in children. Marital-like unions between slaves, or a slave and non-slave, as well as their children were considered illegal according to Roman law, but the status could change through manumission.14 In this case, the female slave Asia had been freed at some time after she had given birth to a son. After manumission the situation changed in legal terms. As a freedwoman she could legally marry Dardanus and their presumed previous informal arrangement could thus be legalized. The boy Rufus was also manumitted at some time and possibly adopted as the legitimate son of the carpenter Dardanus who may also have been his biological father. Although the boy was born a slave and Roman children, both slaves and children of freeborn status, often worked there are no links between the boy Rufus and any kind of work.15 All three males in the picture are dressed in the toga. This is a regular and important visual sign of the status of a free Roman citizen. For those who had not always had the right of wearing this garment, the toga seems to have been particularly important as a sign of being a free citizen. It is noteworthy that in this case the boy does not have a bulla around his neck as many children have on memorials of freed slaves from this period, especially younger boys in family groups. The bulla was a protective pendant and a symbol of freeborn status, at least for boys, and it is a significant detail of freeborn sons in the representations of family groups of freed slaves from the Late Republic and Early Empire.16 In this image, the omission of the bulla and the notification of the boy being ‘spurius filius’ are clear signs of his status as non-free at birth. In this example there are no allusions to work with the portraits, but to the right in the upper inscription a Roman job title is included. Here we find the mention of fabrei tignu(ares), carpenters, a job that was pursued by the two brothers Dardanus and Silvanus. However, it is quite a discrete reference to work, only a short mention in the inscription and there are no iconographic symbols that mirror the two men’s work. Some instances with visual representations of a carpenter’s work do exist and carpenters occur often in the epigraphic evidence of funerary inscriptions. Both in text and images they always represent male work.17 Partly based on the woman’s hairstyle the dating of this relief has been set to around 40 BC.18 As such, it appears to be one of the earliest preserved examples

146

Families in the R oman and L ate A ntiq u e R oman Wo rld

from the city of Rome where an allusion to work has been included in the decoration of a family memorial, however discretely and only in text.19 The Clodii The next example is another framed marble relief, now in the collections of Musée du Louvre.20 The dating of this item is somewhat later that the previous example, possibly from the Early Augustan period.21 This one too displays a panel with group portraiture and documentation of work in text.22 There are three adult persons in the panel: two men and one woman, with the woman placed to the right in the picture.23 Below the portraits is a short inscription identifying all three by name: the man to left is named Clodius Tertius, the other man in the centre is named A. Clodius Metrodorus, and to the left is the female Clodia (L) Hilara who was a freedwoman.24 All three persons are represented in the same size but the central man, Clodus Metrodorus, is a man of mature age and he is rendered in somewhat higher relief than the other two, covering part of a shoulder of each of them. Both men are dressed in togas with identical draping and both of them hold their right arm/hand in the sling of the toga. The portraits of the two men are in the Republican realistic style that coexisted with the higher degree of classicizing style that characterizes Augustan court portraiture. The two men’s hairstyles are also in the Late Republican tradition which persisted into Augustan times.25 The face of the woman represents a portrait of a more generalized type of adult women which occurred earlier in the first century BC. Her coiffure is the traditional nodus type but in the style of some women of the Augustan court, primarily of the empress Livia and Julia, the daughter of Augustus.26 By placing Clodius Metrodoros in the centre of the group and by the rendering of him in a slightly higher relief, both Zanker and Kockel have interpreted him as the head of the family. He has married the freedwoman Clodia Hilara, interpreted by Kockel as his freedwoman ( … seine Liberta … ) while Kleiner has interpreted them as conliberti.27 The woman, Clodia Hilara, was without doubt a freedwoman, liberta, but there is not an equally clear indication for the status of Clodius Metrodoros. He and Clodia Hilara have their heads slightly turned towards each other and they are likely to represent a married couple.28 It was not unusual for men of lower social status, even freeborn men, to marry a freedwoman who could have been a former slave of their own household. In addition to the personal names there is also some epigraphic information related to work. The title medicus, doctor, which is added to the male personal names in the inscription below the portraits informs the viewer of the occupation pursued by the two men. For the woman there is no sign of her being a doctor or any other indication of an occupational life. However, in the Roman world both men and women could and did work in medicine as is attested by inscriptions, literary evidence, iconography and the archaeological record. Male as well as female doctors, medici and medicae, are documented



R oman Family R eliefs and the C ommem o ratio n o f Wo rk

147

in inscriptions from all over the Empire, widely diffused through the Roman provinces.29 In spite of this being one of the few professions open to women men are, however, more frequently documented as doctors and in this case there is no clear coupling between the woman and the profession of a medica. The group represents three people with a centrally placed man of mature age, Clodius Metrodoros, who was medicus and highly likely married to the female ex-servant Clodia Hilara. What was their relation to the younger man, Clodius Tertius? Is this a family group of parents and a son who was also a medicus? It is not altogether clear from the inscription whether the younger man is the couple’s son but the scene has been interpreted by Kockel to depict a family group of husband and wife, and their son.30 They all share the family name (nomen gentile) Clodius which mirrors kinship, either as a nuclear family with freeborn males or, as suggested by Diana Kleiner, that the older man and the woman had been manumitted together and were conliberti. However, the only firm indication of an ex-slave is that of the woman, and at the time when the relief was made, both men were definitely free which is marked by wearing the toga, the hall-mark of a Roman citizen. To practice as a medicus implied some education and necessary technical skills and the younger man, and possible son, could have been trained to be a doctor by the older Clodius Metrodoros. Most Roman doctors were from the groups of slaves and freedmen, or they were the descendants of freedmen but regardless of whether they were freedmen or not, doctors in Roman society had in general a low social status.31 This, in combination with the fact that Clodius Metrodoros probably had married a freedwoman point in the direction of a possible family group of a relatively low social standing, with the male family members practicing as doctors. But, in spite of this, the group had the financial means to have a funerary relief commissioned, with three portraits and an inscription with the names of all three persons. Family and Visual Symbols of Work The Antestii32 A framed marble slab in the Vatican Museum is one of the few examples of a possible family group and with iconographic representations related to work.33 (Figure 8.3) The decoration on this slab is divided in two parts, to the left is an inscription and iconographic work symbols and to the right are the portraits. The group consists of three persons, two males and one female with their names inscribed above and below the portraits. They are all frontal and with no hands showing.34 To the left in the group is an older man, A. Antestius Antiochus, and to the right is another man, A. Antestius Nicia, both of them were freedmen. There is an obvious difference in age between the older Antestius Antiochus and the younger Antestius Nicia. Both men are portrayed with protruding ears and beardless. Antiochus, is presented in a Late Republican realistic style common for older males.

148

Families in the R oman and L ate A ntiq u e R oman Wo rld

Figure 8.3  The funerary relief of the Antestii, Vatican Museums, Rome. Photography courtesy of Deutsches Archäologisches Instituts, Rom, D-DAI-ROM-43.455

A woman named Antestia Rufa has the central position in the group, between the two men. The style of her portrait is, according to Kleiner, of the same generalized type as the woman in the Gavii relief which is in an earlier Republican tradition but still recurrent in the Early Augustan era.35 Her hairstyle too fits into the style of the Augustan age which makes a likely dating of this item.36 Both of the men were also clearly freedmen, liberti, of the same owner, an A. Antestius whose portrait is not in the picture. It is not altogether clear if the woman, Antestia Rufa, was also a liberta. Her name does not include the notification of L(iberta) as do both the men’s but her double name may still point in the direction of a freed status.37 In addition to the three persons named and depicted on the right of the marble slab, there is also a fourth person mentioned in the inscription: A.  Antestius Salvius. He was a freedman, libertus, of Antiochus and Nicia. Below his name are the symbols of metalwork: tools and a kantharos, a possible product of the trade. There is no job title in the inscription to identify the exact nature of the occupation but the tools and the kantharos which is probably a metal vessel, may be interpreted as an occupation related to metalwork.38 The work symbols are placed in closest connection to the name of Salvius which mean that either he or perhaps all the three male freedmen were involved in this trade. Again, there is no obvious link between the woman and an occupational life but this issue will be discussed further below.



R oman Family R eliefs and the C ommem o ratio n o f Wo rk

149

Family and Work in Text and Image The Ampudii39 This relief represents three adult persons, one man in the centre and a woman on each side of the man (Figure 8.4). Below the portraits is an inscription with one name only, that of the man. From this we know that he was a freedman called L.  Ampudius Philomusus but the names of the two women remain unknown.40 Ampudius Philomusus is not a young man, but a partly bald man of mature age. His portrait style is in the Late Republican tradition of realistic renderings, especially of older males. He is toga clad and, thus, resembles many other male representations from this period and region with the left arm/hand visible in a sling of the toga.41

Figure 8.4  The funerary relief of the Ampudii, British Museum London. Photograph courtesy © Trustees of the British Museum

The two nameless women both wear the palla but there is clear difference in age between them with the woman to the left being the younger. Their different ages are marked by their hairstyles and further signs of age in the older woman’s face. She is depicted with the traditional nodus coiffure while the younger woman has a more modern and fashionable hairstyle.42 Like the man, the portrait of the older woman is in the tradition of the realistic Late Republican style while the younger woman’s portrait bears more likeness to the contemporary Augustan court style, with a higher degree of idealization.43 Partly based on the portrait style and the coiffures of the younger woman this relief has been dated to the Augustan period.44 In the section with the portraits there are no allusions to work or occupations but on each side of the portrait section is seen a vessel on four legs, a likely grain measure, a modius, but the vessel to the right is considerable larger than the one on the left side. On the left side is an inscription that repeats the name of the man and with the addition of ‘modi(arius)’.45 The short inscription is placed on the actual vessel and in this item is a rare example from the city of

150

Families in the R oman and L ate A ntiq u e R oman Wo rld

Rome of a family group with a combination of both text and image referring to work. In this case it concerns a possible occupation in the grain trade or a perhaps a baker.46 The relations between the three people are not altogether clear. An immediate interpretation could be that Ampudius Philomusus and the older women represent a married couple and the younger woman is their daughter.47 However, another option could be that the younger woman was the wife of Ampudius Philomusus. His head is slightly turned towards the younger woman, but not as clearly as in the Clodii relief, and marriages with a considerable age gap between husband and wife was not unknown to the Romans. If the younger woman is the wife, the older woman could be another and senior member of the family or even the patrona of Philomusus.48 The internal relations between these three persons is, however, not possible to identify with certainty although a reading of them as a family group of parents and a daughter, a young adult, seems fully plausible.

Family, Work, Social Values and Identities All four reliefs in the above discussion, of the Gavii, the Clodii, the Antestii and the Ampudii, represent group portraits with references to work. All of the items have their original provenance in the city of Rome or its immediate surroundings and the date between about 40 BC and the reign of Augustus. The total number of persons commemorated in the four reliefs is 14, with 13 visually commemorated and one man, the freedman A.  Antestius Salvius, mentioned only by name in the relief of the Antestii. Out of a total number of 14 persons in this group there are 5 women and 9 men. In the group of males there is a younger child, Rufus of the Gavii, who is the only child of the group. Apart from the two women in the Ampudii relief, all of the individuals are commemorated by name. The group portraits in these reliefs have previously been interpreted as families, although as various family models, but the relations between the individual family members are not always clear to us. The only epigraphic instance in this sample with outspoken family ties is the Gavii relief, with the two carpenter brothers Dardanus and Salvius. In the other examples the interpretation of the persons as family groups is based on iconographic reading and with comparisons with other, similar representations of family groups. It is, however, not a bold interpretation to see groups like the ones discussed above as families. Family groups were recurrent in urban Roman funerary monuments during the later Republic and the Augustan period and other studies have demonstrated that the bond between husband and wife, and between parents and children is by far the most regular in the commemoration of civilians. According to the 1984 research by Saller and Shaw the nuclear family was by far the largest group in their study of commemoration on tombstones.49 Another regular feature coupled to this type of self-representations is the social



R oman Family R eliefs and the C ommem o ratio n o f Wo rk

151

standing of the commissioner(s) who mostly belong to the strata of manumitted men and women. A majority of the 14 persons in the evidence discussed above were freed persons. All three men of the Gavii relief were manumitted as well as the men of the Antestii relief and the freedman L. Ampudius Philomusus. The woman in the Gavii relief, Cavia Asia, is definitely a freedwoman and so is the woman in relief of the Clodii, Clodia Hilara. For the other three women, the one in the Antestii relief and the two in the Ampudii relief, there is no unambiguous information to identify the women as ex-slaves or freeborn. In any case they were related, probably through family ties, to men with a servile background, indicating that they, like the men, were not persons of high social standing. The occupations represented in this sample are carpenters (the Gavii), doctors (the Clodii), metalworker(s) (the Antestii) and a possible miller, dealer in the grain trade or in the baking business (the Ampudii) and all work references are clearly related to men. This is another typical feature, both in epigraphy and in iconography. In general, fewer women than men are documented on funerary monuments but this is particularly striking in relation to work and occupations. Not only do men appear more often related to work than women, but men are also coupled to a more extensive number of occupations. This general trend is applicable also to the examples discussed above where the link between women and work is vague. This is a reflection of Roman attitudes towards female work which is a complex issue. However, the omission of obvious work relations to women in these reliefs does not necessarily mean that they were not involved in an occupational life. Women’s work has mostly been documented through epigraphic evidence which was discussed in a number of articles by Susan Treggiari in the mid and late 1970s.50 From the pioneering studies by Treggiari, and later ones by other scholars, it is obvious that the work of Roman women found in inscriptions is documented to a lesser degree than for men. A parallel trend is detectable in the visual evidence, with fewer women than men coupled to work in iconographic representations, and to a more limited number of occupations. This has been clearly demonstrated by the likewise pioneering study from 1981 by Natalie Kampen, Image and Status.51 The omission of associations to an occupational life for women is not accidental but the result of Roman gender ideologies reflected clearly in the ancient epigraphic and visual sources. An ideology that primarily confined women to family life and work in a domestic sphere did not support the idea of an occupational life of women. One must bear in mind that both the visual and epigraphic documentation of work only constitute a minor part of both epigraphic and iconographic sources but, still, a general and consistent pattern may be seen concerning the documentation of male and female work. For men of certain social classes it was more acceptable to be associated with an occupation and the reluctance of documenting Roman men’s work is not as general as for women of the same social level, however, always related to social class. In general, for women of difference social classes and ranks, the ideals are more in accordance with

152

Families in the R oman and L ate A ntiq u e R oman Wo rld

traditional elite values that paid tribute to essential female roles of housewife and mother while for men the ideals were more clearly linked to social class.52 From an aristocratic point of view all kinds of work were held in low esteem. But in reality and in spite of the disdainful attitude towards physical labour from the upper classes, for other social groups, manumitted as well as freeborn, occupations played a central role in their lives and in the family economy. A successful working life was the basis for many families’ economic status that paid for a commemorative funerary document, such as those discussed here. Wage earning labour could also open possibilities of social and financial advancements for some family members. Thus, for large groups of Roman men and women, work must have formed an important part of their social identities and especially for men. In the hierarchical disposition of text and iconography on funerary monuments work is regularly subordinated to the portraits, regardless of whether there is a single or a group portrait. As mentioned above, freedmen and freedwomen were often the commissioners of funerary monuments where family groups and references to work occur. For a manumitted man or woman, the ability to have a family with legal status was an acquired right and naturally of particular importance to them personally and worthy of public demonstration. A legal marriage implied the possibility of legitimate offspring; children, especially boys, are often part of the family groups in a funerary context. In the examples discussed in this paper only one younger child appears, the boy Rufus in the Gavii relief, who was not of freeborn status but freed. In all families, children were the link between generations but it is likely to have been of particular importance for freedmen to stress if there was a freeborn child, especially a son, in the family.53 Through a freeborn son the freed parents could establish a new family line, and thus create a family with many generations to come, in accordance with Roman aristocratic family ideals. Thus, manumission made an essential difference in the lives of freed men and women while the work situation may have been more or less the same after manumission as when slaves. Consequently to present a family with legitimate children had a higher ranking as a marker of a successful life than work and occupations which might have been more closely associated with life as a slave.54 The iconography and epigraphy on funerary monuments responded to a special need of freed men and women. The ideals and values expressed in text and by image on commemorative monuments all reflect socially accepted values but with some variation in relation to gender roles and social class. It seems to have been of a particular importance for people moving socially upwards to express socially accepted values, such as women not working outside of the domestic sphere.55 The conflicting views towards male and female work in ancient sources are an example of how ideals may vary from one social class to another and also in relation to gender structures.



R oman Family R eliefs and the C ommem o ratio n o f Wo rk

153

Notes 1

2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13

14 15 16

17 18 19

20 21 22

This chapter is part of a more extensive study called Family images – family values embracing a number of case studies from the Greco-Roman world. The focus is on the commemoration of families in the funerary iconography, social and gender values. The project has initially been supported financially in Sweden by Birgit och Gad Rausings stiftelse för Humanisitisk Forskning and later the part concerning Roman Italy has been granted funding from Fondazione Famiglia Rausing. I am very grateful to both foundations for their financial support that has enabled me to initiate a study on Roman family reliefs. I also want to express my gratitude to Dr. Mary Harlow for reading and correcting the English and to the annonymous reader who at an initial stage of writing this paper gave valuable comments and suggestions of improvements. See George 2006 for a recent discussion of freedmen’s reliefs For an extensive study of job titles in epigraphic evidence at Rome see Joshel 1992. In the epigraphic evidence only about 10% include job titles and about 60% of those document slaves or ex-slaves, Joshel, 1992, pp.  23, 53. Also in visual representations a majority are freedmen, Zimmer, 1982, pp. 6–12. Most urban slaves documented in funerary contexts were commemorated by simple inscriptions and only occasionally by more elaborated monuments; George, 2006, p. 19. The memorial of Eurysaces has recently been discussed by Hackworth-Peterson see Hackworth Petersen, 2006, esp. chapter 3, and with bibliography for further references. It has often been assumed that Eurysaces was a former slave but see Hackworth-Petersen, 2006, chap. 3 for a discussion of Eurysaces’ social status. Hackworth-Petersen, 2006, 92f. For a recent discussion on the tomb of the Haterii see Leach, 2006. Rome, S. Giovanni in Laterano, chiostro. H: 0. 64, W: 1. 85, D: 0. 13. Zanker, 1974/75, 294–296, Abb. 32; Kleiner, 1977, Cat. n. 82, Fig. 82; Kockel, 1993, 109f., D3, Taf. 21.c, 23 a–d; and George, 2006, p. 20, Fig. 1. CIL 6.9411. Zanker, 1974/75, p. 294; Kockel, 1993, 109f.; and George, 2006, p. 20. Diana Kleiner in her study on group portraiture has put forward the possibility of the boy being the son of Asia and Salvius instead of Asia-Dardanus but concluded that the latter is more likely considering the boy’s place in the picture, see Kleiner, 1977, p. 40. The same grouping of parents and a child, most often a son, occurs repeatedly in other reliefs from the same period, see Kleiner, 1977, Figs. 67–70. Bradley, 1987, 47f. For a discussion of Roman children and work see Bradley, 1991, pp. 103–124. A protective pendant, the bulla, was given to freeborn children at the lustratio, a birth ceremony. Owing to a lack of sources on this issue it is not known if the bulla was given equally to boys and girls. There are no iconographic examples of girls wearing a bulla, but several with boys. See Kleiner, 1977, nos. 70 and 71, and Kockel, 1993 Taf. 41a, 51b and 111 a–c for representations of family groups including boys with bullae. For some iconographic examples of carpenters see Zimmer, 1982, nos. 56–61. Zanker 1974/75, pp. 294–296, Abb. 32; Kockel, 1993, p. 110, Taf. 23, the woman has the same type of coiffure as appears on coins of Fulvia; George, 2006, p. 20, Fig. 1. George, 2006, p. 21. Another example from Rome and of an earlier date is the relief of the butcher Lucius Aurelius Hermia and his wife Aurelia Philematio, from around 75–50 BC. In this case the work reference occurs in the inscription where the job title lanius, butcher, is mentioned. (British Museum, L: 1m, H: 0. 58). This item has not been included in this sample discussed in this paper as the sculptural decoration only represents two people, the butcher and his wife, and not a group of at least three persons. For a recent discussion of this item see Koortbojan, 2006. For iconographic representations of a butcher’s work see Zimmer, 1982, nos. 1–7. Paris, Musée du Louvre, MA 3493, Inv. n. MND 594. H: 0. 71, L: 1. 21, D: 0145. Kleiner, 1977, p. 96, the Early Augustan period defined by Kleiner as 30–13 BC. This relief has been known from the mid-eighteenth century when it was known to have been in the Villa Taverna in Frascati. Later it was acquired by Émile Zola and part of his private

154

23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35 36 37

38

39

40 41 42 43 44 45 46 47 48

49

Families in the R oman and L ate A ntiq u e R oman Wo rld

collection in his last home at Rue de Bruxelles in Paris. At the author’s death in 1903 the relief was acquired by the Musée du Louvre; Kockel 1993, 139f. Zanker, 1975, 296, Abb. 33; Kleiner, 1977, Cat. n. 45, Fig. 45 and Kockel, 1993, 139f., n. H3, Taf. 48c, 50a–d. CIL 6.9574= CIL 14.2652. Kleiner, 1977, pp. 96, 123. Ibid., pp. 107, 137. Zanker, 1975, 296; Kleiner, 1977, p. 39; and Kockel, 1993, 139f. Zanker, 1975, p. 296 and Kleiner, 1977, p. 39: ‘the central man and the woman are a married couple … because they turn their heads toward one another’. For a general discussion on the inscriptions of doctors see Gummerus, 1913; see also Gowland & Redfern in this volume, p. 123. Kockel, 1993, p. 139. Zanker talks about his son ‘… sein Sohn Clodius Tertius …’, Zanker 1975, 296, and that the two men (Ihr gemeinsamer Sohn, later on he mentions the two doctors who were ‘Vater und Sohn’). Scarborough, 1969, p. 111. Rome, Musei Vaticani, Galleria Lapidaria, IXB 31, Inv. n. 8491. H: 0. 47, B: 1. 02. The original provenance of this piece is unknown, Kockel, 1993, p. 186. Amelung, 1903, p. 193, Taf. 24; Zanker, 1974/75, 300, Abb. 37; Kleiner, 1977, p. 225, Cat. n. 51, fig. 51 and Kockel, 1993, 186f., L 16, Taf. 99d, 100a–c. CIL 6.11896. Kleiner, 1977, p. 87. Ibid., p. 96, Early Augustan 30–13 BC and Kockel, 1993, p. 186. Gummerus in his 1913 study of Roman occupations, suggested that Antiochus und Nicia were brothers and that Antestia Rufa was the daughter of their patron Aulus Antestius, and that she was married to Antiochus, see Gummerus, 1913, 75. This idea has, however, been questioned by Kockel, see Kockel, 1993, p. 186. Zimmer, 1982, p. 190, n. 127. There is a funerary relief in the British Museum (Inv. n. 1954, 12–14.1) commemorating two freedmen, the Licinii, and where the same kind of tools appear, see Zanker, 1974/75, Abb. 36; Zimmer, 1982, n. 128 and Kockel, 1993, Taf. 101a, 102b. For further iconographic parallels to the tools used for metal work see Zimmer, 1982, pp. 191–196, nos. 128–139. London, British Museum, Inv. n. 1920–20.1. H: 0. 61, L: 1. 64, W: 0. 195. Zanker, 1975, 300, Abb. 38; Kleiner, 1977, Cat. n. 59, fig.59 and Kockel, 1993, 157f. J3, Taf. 68c, 69d, 70a-b. The relief was acquired by the British Museum in 1920 but before that it is known to have been in London from c. 1870. In the early eighteenth century it was in the Villa Casale by the Porta Capena in Rome; Kockel, 1993, p. 157. CIL 6.11595. Kleiner, 1977, 158f. Kleiner, 1977, p.  134. Another example from the Augustan period of a woman with a nodus coiffure is a relief in the Ny Carlberg Glyptotek, Copenhagen, (Inv. n. 2799); Kleiner, 1977, n. 88. Kleiner, 1977, pp. 108–113 and Kockel, 1993, p. 158. Kleiner, 1977, p. 134, the mid-Augustan period (13 BC-5AD); Kockel, 1993, p. 158; the younger woman’s hairstyle was fashionable in the Augustan period. Zimmer, 1982, n. 29, 117f. According to Zimmer, the word modiarius is very unusual. It occurs in only one more epigraphic instance, CIL 6.2397 where it occurs as a cognomen; D OCTAVI D L MODIARI. Kleiner, 1977, p. 61; Zimmer, 1982, p. 117; George, 2006, p. 22. Kleiner, 1977, p. 61. Both Zanker and Kleiner have suggested the relief may represent L. Ampudius Philomusus, his wife and daughter, see Zanker, 1974/75, 300 and Kleiner, 1977, p. 61. The same interpretation is put forward by Zimmer: ‘Dargestellt ist L. AMPUDIUS PHILOMUSUS, ein Fregelassener mit seiner Frau und seiner Tochter’, see Zimmer, 1982, p. 117. Saller and Shaw, 1984, 132. For a more recent study on methodological issues in defining families in funerary contexts see Martin, 1996.



R oman Family R eliefs and the C ommem o ratio n o f Wo rk

155

50 See the studies by Treggiari from 1975 and 1976. 51 Kampen, 1981. 52 For a more detailed discussion on the relations between ideals and reality, and women left out from work contexts see Dixon 2001a and 2001b. 53 For further examples and discussion of representations of family groups in a funerary context see Mander in this volume. 54 George, 2006, p. 20. 55 See, Zanker, 1992, p. 340.

Bibliography Amelung, W. (1903), Die Skulpturen des Vatikanischen Museum, Berlin. Bradley, K. (1987), Slaves and Masters in the Roman Empire. A Study in Social Control, New York and Oxford: Oxford University Press. —(1991), Discovering the Roman Family. Studies in Roman Social History, New York and Oxford: Oxford University Press. Carroll, M. (2006), Spirits of the Dead. Roman Funerary Commemoration in Western Europe, Oxford: Oxford University Press. Dixon, S. (2001a), Reading Roman Women. Sources, Genres and Real Life, London: Duckworth. —(2001b), ‘How do you count them if they’re not here? New perspectives on Roman cloth production’, Opuscula Romana, 25/26, 7–17. George, M. (2006), ‘Social identity and the dignity of work in freedmen’s reliefs’, in d’Ambra, E. and Métraux, G. P. R. (eds), The Art of Citizens, Soldiers and Freedmen in the Roman World. British Archaeological Reports International Series 1526, Oxford: Archaeopress, pp. 19–29. Gummerus, H. (1913), ‘Darstellungen aus dem Handwerk auf römsichen Grabund Votivstelen in Italien’, Jahrbuch des deutsches archäologischen Instituts, 28, 63–126. Hackworth Petersen, L. (2006), The Freedman in Roman Art and Art History, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Joshel, S. R. (1992),  Work, Identity, and Legal Status at Rome. A Study of the Occupational Inscriptions, Norman and London: University of Oklahoma Press. Kampen, N. (1981), Image and Status. Roman Working Women in Ostia, Berlin: Mann. Kleiner, D. E. E. (1977), Roman Group Portraiture. The Funerary Reliefs of the Late Republic and Early Empire, New York and London: Garland Publishing. Kockel, V. (1993), Porträtreliefs Stadrömischer Grabbauten. Ein Beitrag zur Geschichte und zum Verständnis des spätrepublikanisch-frühkaiserzeitlichen Privatporträts, Mainz: Philipp von Zabern. Koortbojan, M. (2006), ‘The freedman’s voice: the funerary monument of Aurelius Hermia and Aurelia Philemato’, in d’Ambra, E.and Métraux, G. P. R.

156

Families in the R oman and L ate A ntiq u e R oman Wo rld

(eds) The Art of Citizens, Soldiers and Freedmen in the Roman World. British Archaeological Reports International Series 1526, Oxford: Archaeopress, pp. 91–99. Leach E. W. (2006), ‘Freedmen and immortality in the tomb of the Haterii’, in d’Ambra, E. and Métraux G. P. R. (eds), The Art of Citizens, Soldiers and Freedmen in the Roman World. British Archaeological Reports International Series 1526, Oxford: Archaeopress, pp. 1–18. Martin, D. (1996), ‘The construction of the ancient family: methodological considerations’, Journal of Roman Studies, 86, 40–60. Saller, R. and Shaw, B. (1984), ‘Tombstones and Roman family relations in the Principate’, Journal of Roman Studies, 74, 25–156. Scarborough, J. (1969), Roman Medicine, London: Thames & Hudson. Treggiari, S. (1975), ‘Jobs in the household of Livia’, Papers of the British School at Rome, 30, 48–72. —(1976), ‘Jobs for women’, American Journal of Ancient History, 1, 76–104. Zanker, P. (1974/75), ‘Grabreliefs römischer Freigelassener’, Jahrbuch des deutsches archäologischen Instituts, 89/90, 268–315. —(1992), ‘Bürgerliche Selbstdarstellungen am Grab im römischer Kasierreich’, in Schalles, H.-J.; von Hesberg, H. and Zanker, P. (eds), Die römische Stadt im 2. Jahrhundert n. Chr. Der Funktionswandel des öffentlichen Raumes. Kolloquium in Xanten von 2. bis 4. Mai 1990, Köln, pp. 339–357. Zimmer, G. (1982), Römische Berufsdarstellungen. Archäologischen Forschungen. Bd 12, Berlin: Gebr. Mann Verlag.

9

Death and the Family: Widows and Divorcées in Roman Egypt1 April Pudsey

Introduction Widowed women, and their position within the social and cultural history of both the family and wider society, have received surprisingly little attention from historians, despite their demographic prominence in pre-modern European populations.2 Age and sex specific patterns of marriage, widowhood, divorce and remarriage have great bearing on the structure and operation of familial networks and so whether or not widows chose – or were expected – to remarry impacted both on the demographic profile of women within particular age groups, and on the nature of the networks of obligations within families.3 Though there was a great deal of variety in pre-modern European marriage patterns, the risk of widowhood for married women loomed large; high rates of mortality for men and a predisposition for younger women to marry older men on their first marriage, ensured that wives usually outlived their husbands.4 Widowhood was not only frequent in the European past, but was also likely to have occurred when women had children and were still in their child-bearing years, making the frequency and duration of widowhood important factors in levels of marital fertility; since overall marital fertility is partly dependent on a population’s relative numbers of unmarried women, high rates of widowhood within pre-menopausal age groups would have led to large proportions of unmarried women and, consequently, reduced levels of marital fertility.5 The decision women made on whether or not to remarry after the death of a spouse is, therefore, of great demographic significance. Remarriage, or rather a low rate of remarriage, is also an important factor in our consideration of the level of economic and social dependence of widows on their adult children, or on their extended kin if they had minor children. Patterns of remarriage for divorcées, though they may be based on different cultural expectations, would have similar demographic and socio-economic impact both for the female population and at the level of the individual household and, as such, must be considered alongside those of widows.6 We expect that in pre-modern patriarchal societies widows and divorcées would be expected to remarry, and this would have largely been the case,7 but there is also evidence to suggest that

158

Families in the R oman and L ate A ntiq u e R oman Wo rld

there was a good deal of fluidity in remarriage patterns across pre-modern Europe, and that where single women (with or without children) retained a certain degree of economic and legal independence they generally chose not to remarry: such women represent a ‘problematic category of adult women who are notionally independent of males’.8 In the case of Roman Egypt we find our best material evidence from the ancient world for the position of widows and divorcées in the context of the household, particularly in terms of residence on the death of, or divorce from, their husbands. In the 14-yearly household census for Roman Egypt over the first three centuries AD we see a significant variety in the patterns of residence of single women who are either stated as, or likely to have been, widowed or divorced.9 In Roman Egypt (and the Greco-Roman world more generally) a newly married women would join the parental household of her new husband and, in the event of divorce or of the husband’s death, would have been expected to return to her natal family.10 However, residence patterns, when viewed from the perspectives of the recorded households and their members, are significantly varied in terms of where, and with whom, widowed and divorced women chose to live. Remarriage did occur and was noted in the census returns, especially cases where there were minor children, but the numbers of childless widowed or divorced women residing with their parents is largely hidden from the census record, since they would not have been recorded as such and would appear to us simply as unmarried adult women.11 What we also see in these households, though, is that women who were once married frequently remained single and residing either with their own adult children, or with their siblings or, in some cases their ex husbands. The patterns of a return to the natal family are also complicated by the widespread practice of brother–sister marriage in Roman Egypt.12 Whilst this paper does not seek to argue that the larger proportion of widows and divorcées failed to remarry, it does aim to demonstrate that a substantial minority of widowed and divorced women appeared to have remained single, and to explore the reasons for, and impact of, this decision; in practical terms the legal and economic independence of adult women, especially those with their children’s interests to consider, was of paramount importance in their (re)marriage plans.

Demography and Single Women The dissolution of marriage on the death of a husband was common to the life course of the family in Roman Egypt; women typically married older men and were therefore more likely to outlive their husbands, a tendency apparent in the 14-yearly census where we observe an average age gap of 7.8 years between spouses.13 The census data suggest that widowers (and divorced husbands) would tend to remarry into their forties, but that widows (and divorced wives) would tend to remarry usually only while still of child-bearing age. The total



D eath and the Family

159

proportion of men in their twenties who were married was 20  per cent and increased to 70 per cent of men in their forties; the total proportion of women married (or rather, still married) in their twenties dropped from 80  per cent down to 30–40 per cent by the time they were in their late forties. Consequently, the proportion of all Romano-Egyptian women in their twenties who were married, had halved by the time they had reached their fifties.14 Put simply, of the recorded adult women in the Roman Empire aged up to 50 years, many chose not to remarry after death of a spouse, or divorce, whereas widowed and divorced men (of whom there were fewer) did remarry. The result was a relatively large proportion of older, single adult women – a demographic pattern which is well attested in other pre-modern Mediterranean populations.15 Single women in particular age groups, then, are key to the understanding of women’s remarriage patterns after divorce or widowhood, and it is here where the census data provide a great deal of information. Hanson’s recent study of single women in Roman Egypt lists the 290 women recorded in the census over the age of 13 (the earliest age at which we know marriage occurred for women in Roman Egypt), a 145 of which appear not to be married.16 Of these 145, 37 between ages 13 and 20 are unmarried (and, because of their age, can be presumed to have not yet married for the first time) and four women whose children are labelled apatores may in fact have been the common law wives of soldiers. This leaves a 104 women who were, potentially, widows or divorcées, 63 of whom lived with an adult son or other male relative.17 Because levels of remarriage are unknown elsewhere in the census population, we cannot say that this demonstrates that widowed and divorced women in Roman Egypt did not regularly remarry,18 but we can say that of those who appear to have been widowed or divorced, many chose to rely either on their adult children or their natal families for support. But the picture is more complex than this: when we look at the individual cases of single adult women from the perspective of their own households, and within particular age groups, more subtle patterns emerge in the nature of familial support networks for a wide range of situations. For instance, though a large number of these women resided with their adult children or siblings, there need not necessarily have been adult males in the household; younger widows and divorcées did not necessarily reside with other adult family members at all, and those in urban environments appear to have been more likely not to have resided with extended family members.19

Residence Patterns of Single Women The tables below collate information from the census returns in a way which highlights the residence patterns of single adult women who are stated as, or likely to have been, widows or divorcées.20 Detail on household structure, family members, and ages are given. There are 74 households in which 87 ‘single’ women reside; some are either stated as widowed or divorced, and most

160

Families in the R oman and L ate A ntiq u e R oman Wo rld

are potentially either since they are of adult age and, often, living with their children. Table 9.1 lists the individual women by age group. These women’s ages range from 17 to 78 (with a mean average at 48, and the majority between ages 30 and 59 – equally in their thirties, forties, and fifties). One is age 17 (living in a multiple household), 7 are in their twenties, 17 in their thirties and an equal number in their forties, 19 are in their fifties and there are 8 each in their sixties and seventies, and 10 of unknown age. Tables 9.2–9.6 detail the household context for each of these individual women. Age group

Household reference

Women’s ages

Unknown

117-Ar-7, 159-Ar-5, 159-Ar-8, 173-Ar-10, 187-Ar-34, 201-Ar-2, 215-An-1, 243-Ar-4, ???-Ar-2, 89-Pt-36, 89-Pt-42

Ages unknown

Twenties

145-Ar-2, 243-Ar-1, 187-Ar-26

29, 27, 25

Thirties

187-Ar-9, 145-Ar-1, 257-Ar-1, 89-Pt-10, 187-Ar-29, 243-Ar-3, 33-Ar-2, 103-Ar-9, 89-Pt-51, 145-Ar-12, 215-He-2, 187-Ox-4

39, 38, 38, 37, 36, 36, 35, 35, 35, 33, 33, 32, 30, 29, 27, 25

Forties

187-Ar-10, 159-Ar-25, 173-Pr-11, 173-Pr-4, 187-Me-1, 89-Pt-5, 159-Ar-19, 173-Pr-15, 145-Ly-1, 187-Ar-22, 89-Pt-6

49, 48, 48, 47, 45, 45, 44, 42, 40, 40, 40

Fifties

57, 56, 55, 55, 55, 55, 54, 201-Ar-6, 89-Pt-37, 11-Ar-1, 131-Me-1, 145-Ar-20, 89-Pt-27, 145-He-2, 159-Ar-10, 54, 54, 54, 50, 50s, 51? 187-Ar-4, 215-Ar-5, 201-Ar-8, 131-He-2, 145-Ar-22

Sixties

173-Pr-17, 47-Ox-1, 117-Ar-12, 173-Pr-14, 69, 65, 64, 60, 60, 60, 60, 187-Ar-30, 215-Ar-1, ???-Ar-3, 89-Pt-28 60

Seventies

131-Ar-12, 89-Pt-44, 117-Ar-6, 215-Hm-3

Multiple

201-Ar-9 (74, 56); 173-Ar-9 (72, 38, 38, 30); 117-Ar-1 (70, 53); 145-Ar-3 (70, 40); 201-Ar-1 (59, 54); 201-Ar-10 (54, 54); 173-Pr-3 (48, 44); 173-Ar-11 (48, 32); 187-Ar-39 (47, 29, 17); 159-Ar-4 (29, 47); 187-Ox-3 (25, 22)

78, 76, 75, 72

Data extrapolated from Bagnall and Frier, 2006; Bagnall, Frier and Rutherford, 1997. Note: For ease of cross-reference the household numbers given here are the standard references to catalogue numbers in Bagnall and Frier, 1994, 2006 and Bagnall, Frier and Rutherford, 1997. The catalogue items are ordered in numerical, then alphabetical, order in those publications and denote the place of residence (‘Ar’ refers to the Arsinoite nome, ‘He’ to the Hermopolite nome, ‘Ly’ the Lykopolite nome, ‘Me’ the Memphite nome, ‘Ox’ the Oxyrhynchite nome, ‘Pr’ the Prosopite nome, and ‘Pt’ to Ptolemais).

Table 9.1 Single adult women who are potentially widows/divorcées, by age group.



161

D eath and the Family

Table 9.2 details apparently single women, divorced, widowed or not married, who reside with adult kin. These kin are usually sons, daughters or siblings (who are either married or unmarried). This group represents the majority of the single women under discussion, though still contains variety in residence patterns of widowed or divorced women who chose to reside with their kin. Forty-two households detail 53 women who reside with family members, either sons and/or daughters or other kin; 28, the majority, of these live with their adult sons and/or daughters who are married and often with children of their own – in four cases these married children are brother–sister marriages (117-Ar-1, 145-Ar-3, 145-Ar-20, 173-Ar-9); 16 live with adult sons/daughters who are not married. One lives with deceased husband’s five brothers and their respective wives and children (???-Ar-3). There are three cases where the divorced woman continues to live with her ex-husband. In 159-Ar-4 this is explained by the fact that the divorced woman and her divorced husband are also brother and sister, so she is in fact remaining in her natal home (with her other two brothers who are married to a pair of sisters). In 159-Ar-5 the divorced couple are again brother and sister and are together the parents of two children; the brother/ex-husband has remarried and has another two children with his new wife. These families are both recorded in Arsinoe, in an urban environment. The situation is less complex in the family 159-Ar-8, in the village of Karanis, where the divorced couple lives in the same house with the ex-husband’s brothers. Though the majority of those recorded (just over half) as single chose to live with their adult offspring or siblings, there was still a certain level of complexity to their living arrangements. Those with children who had married their brothers/sisters were already living with their mothers, presumably before their mothers became widowed or divorced, and those women who divorced after having married their brothers would have had little choice but to remain in the same house. Family Household Age(s) of reference potentially widowed/ divorced women

Location

11-Ar-1

55

1 son (55) and grandson (9)

Theadelphia (Arsinoite)

117-Ar-1

70,53

Single. 1 son (32), 2 daughters (28, 33). Son and eldest daughter married to one another

Arsinoe

117-Ar-6

75

1 son (56, declarant) his wife Philadelphia (Arsinoite) (53) and their son and daughter

? 117-Ar-7 (See also in Table 5)

3 married sons, three grandchildren, 3 slaves

Soknopaiou Nesos

162

Families in the R oman and L ate A ntiq u e R oman Wo rld

Family Household Age(s) of reference potentially widowed/ divorced women

Location

117-Ar-12

64

Declarant. 1 son (48) ad his wife (36) and their son (8) and 2 daughters (20, 17). 2 male slaves (4, 2) and 1 female slave (33)

Arsinoe

131-He-2

50s

1 married daughter (20), son in law (28) and grandson (3)

Ankyronpolis (Herakleopolite)

145-Ar-3

70,40

Tebtynis 40-year-old divorced (declarant), 2 sons (21, 19), 2 daughters (18, apator, 15), 1 slave. Eldest son and daughter married to one another. Mother aged 70, with no husband

145-Ar-12

33

Stated divorced, mother (70), father (76, declarant) and her female slave (32)

Karanis (Arsinoite)

145-Ar-20

55

1 daughter (20s), 1 son (20), married to one another, 2 nephews (8,1), 1 lodger. 1 female lodger

Soknopaiou Nesos

145-Ar-22

51?

2 sons (26, ?) 1 male, relationship unclear

Arsinoite

145-Ly-1

40

1 daughter (21) and 1 orphan (8)

Lykopolis

159-Ar-4

29,47

In house with ex-husband also brother. Ex-husband is 31, declarant and has 2 brothers (33, 45) each of whom is married (their wives appear to be sisters, 35, 26)

Arsinoe

159-Ar-5

lost

In house with ex-husband also brother. Ex-husband is declarant (age lost) and has a new wife and two daughters as well as first wife’s son and daughter (10). There are also three brothers, each married with children, and some unknown rels, perhaps another brother, his wife and two daughters. Slaves

Arsinoe



163

D eath and the Family

Family Household Age(s) of reference potentially widowed/ divorced women

Location

159-Ar-8

lost

In house with ex-husband and his 2 brothers.

Karanis

159-Ar-10

54

2 sons (29, declarant and married to woman in 20s, 20s), 1 daughter (14), 1 grandaughter, 1 nephew

Karanis

173-Ar-9

72,38, 38,30

Karanis 1 married son (48, declarant) and his sister-wife (38) and their daughter. 1 son (44) in tax flight. Unrelated (?) to others (38), her daughter (12, apator) and her sister (38). 1 female lodger (30? freedwoman). A family of slaves, but common-law wife of soldier?

173-Ar-10

?

Declared herself acting as kyrios, has children whose ages are unknown, lives with sister (who is declarant)

Karanis

173-Ar-11 48, 32 (See also in Table 5)

Had 2 husbands (now single), 1 daughter (32, declarant) and 1 son (14). 2 grandchildren (3,1), 1 nephew

Arsinoite

173-Pr-3

48, 44

Both declarant, sisters, reside with brother (56) and two slaves

Thelbonthon Siphtha (Prosopite)

173-Pr-15

42

Declarant, with 3 sons (19, 10, 9), eldest is married (16) with daughter (1)

Thelbonthon Siptha

173-Pr-17

69

With son (47, declarant)

Thelbonthon Siptha

187-Ar-10

49

Divorced, lives with brother (36) both declarants and her daughter, 10

Arsinoe

187-Ar-26

25

1 of 3 apatores relationship uncertain to 57-year-old male declarant and his 13-year-old daughter

Karanis

164

Families in the R oman and L ate A ntiq u e R oman Wo rld

Family Household Age(s) of reference potentially widowed/ divorced women

Location

201-Ar-1

59 54

Declarant, 1 son (33) and his wife (35), their daughter (0). apator relative? 1 female slave (8)

Tebtynis

201-Ar-9

74, 56

Declarant. 2 sons (56, 46) 1 daughter (56), grandsons (?,26,?) and granddaughter (6)

Karanis

201-Ar-10

54, 54

Declarant (54) and her sister (54). Declarant has son (33) who is married to the other’s daughter (35); this couple has two children (0, 0) and there are 2 slaves (8,?)

Tebtynis

215-An-1

?

Declarant, lives with son and daughter, also both declarants

Antinoopolis

215-Ar-1

60

Resides with son (35, declarant) Karanis

215-Ar-5

54

Lives with married son (36, declarant) and his wife (34)

Soknopaiou Nesos

215-He-2

33

Lives with brother (37, declarant) and his wife and child and half-sister

Ankyronpolis (Herakleopolite)

???-Ar-3

60

Wife of one of 6 brothers, each living with their wives in same household (her husband and 3 of his brothers are deceased). 1 single brother is declarant, other (57) is married (38) various sons of majority and various daughters

Soknopaiou Nesos

131-Ar-12

78

Declarant with 1 son (61) his wife (60?), their son (21) and daughter (31)

Arsinoe

89-Pt-5

45

Lives with 2 sons (25, declarant and 12)

Ptolemais

89-Pt-6

40

Lives with son (15, declarant apator) and daughter (20)

Ptolemais

89-Pt-10

37

Lives with 2 sons (19, 9 both declarants) and family of slaves

Ptolemais



165

D eath and the Family

Family Household Age(s) of reference potentially widowed/ divorced women

Location

89-Pt-27

55

Lives with son (39, declarant), his wife (37) and their 2 sons (15,1) and 2 daughters (16,5)

Ptolemais

89-Pt-28

60

Ptolemais Lives with son (27, declarant) ad 2 males (50, 20, relationships unclear)

89-Pt-36

?

Lives with son (29, declarant), his wife (30) and their son (4) and daughter (?)

Ptolemais

89-Pt-37

56

Lives with son (17, declarant) and 2 females (23, 2) whose relationships are unclear

Ptolemais

89-Pt-42

?

Lives with 2 sons (16, declarant, Ptolemais 15) and daughter

89-Pt-44

76

Lives with son (declarant) and his wife (44)

89-Pt-51

35

Lives with 3 sons (16, declarant, Ptolemais ?, 1) and 2 slaves (5, male and 28, female)

Ptolemais

Data extrapolated from Bagnall and Frier, 2006; Bagnall, Frier and Rutherford, 1997.

Table 9.2 Apparently single women, divorced, widowed or not married, who reside with adult kin: sons, daughters, siblings (who are either married or unmarried)

Table 9.3 illustrates the much smaller category of apparently single women, divorced, widowed or not married, who reside within exclusively female households (with exception of male slaves, in some cases). There are 13 households in which 16 apparently single women live in exclusively female households, with their daughters and/or sisters. Their broad age range is from 17 to 72, with an average of 43; most were in their forties, one in her fifties, and one each in their twenties and thirties. It is interesting to note that most of these exclusively female households existed in urban environments, where one might argue there were more options open to women who needed male guardians, for themselves or for their minor children, for business activities (as in 159-Ar-19, 159-Ar-25, 187-Ar-30) in which a guardians are named).21

166

Families in the R oman and L ate A ntiq u e R oman Wo rld

Household

Age(s) of potentially widowed/ divorced women

Family

Location

47-Ox-1

65

Oxyrhynchos Freedwoman, resides with another (unrelated?) person (declarant). Missing entry – two other women suggested by Bagnall and Frier

159-Ar-19

44

Resides alone, kyrios named.

Arsinoite

159-Ar-25

48

Resides alone, as declarant (48), kyrios named

Theadelphia (Arsinoite)

173-Pr-4

47

Declarant: Thremmemphis, age 10; her mother, Soeris (widow?), age 47. Widow/ divorcée did not remarry

Thelbonthon Siptha (Prosopite)

173-Pr-14

60

Declarant with 1 daughter (20) Thelbonthon Siptha

187-Ar-29 36 (See also in Table 5)

Declarant, 2 daughters from 2 different marriages (13, 4)

Soknopaiou Nesos (Arsinoite)

187-Ar-30

60

Declarant, resides with slaves, kyrios named

Tebtynis (Arsinoite)

187-Me-1

45

Freedwoman, declarant, 2 daughters (20, 12 apatores), 1 female slave (15), but common-law wife of soldier?

Moithymis (Memphite)

187-Ox-3

25,22

Both declarants, perhaps half-sisters

Oxyrhynchos

187-Ox-4

32

Declarant, with 2 daughters (10, 3)

Oxyrhychos

215-Hm-3

72

Declarant. 2 slaves (28, male, 34)

Hermopolis

187-Ar-39

47,29, 17

Mother (declarant) and her two daughters

Tebtynis

201-Ar-8

50

Declarant, daughter (21) and granddaughter (1)

Karanis (Arsinoite)

Data extrapolated from Bagnall and Frier, 2006; Bagnall, Frier and Rutherford, 1997.

Table 9.3  Apparently single women, divorced, widowed or not married, who reside within exclusively female households (with exception of male slaves, in some cases)



167

D eath and the Family

Non-kin household members appear throughout the recorded population of Roman Egypt and are, more often than not, male. Lodgers were a feature of households in the large towns and metropoleis.22 In Table 9.4 we see apparently single women, divorced, widowed or not married, who reside with non-kin males (most of whom appear to have been the only adult male in the household). In five households where there are non-kin who are lodgers or other non-kin; in two of these households the women are in their thirties, in one, her fifties, others ages unknown. All of these were in Arsinoe, an urban, metropolitan environment, and all were very small households in size. Household reference

Age(s) of potentially widowed/ divorced women

Family

Location

187-Ar-9

39

With son (16) and another child. Male lodger (54) and 2 slaves. Lodger is only other adult male, maybe?

Arsinoe

187-Ar-34

?

Declarant, with daughter. 2 lodgers (14?, male, ?)

Arsinoe

201-Ar-6

57

Ex- wife of non-resident owner/ declarant

Arsinoe

243-Ar-3

36

Declarant wih 3 sons (16, 11, 7). 1 male lodger (31 only adult male) and his son, also a lodger

Arsinoe

???-Ar-2

?

Declarant, 1 daughter – other people, but difficult to reconstruct

Arsinoite

Data extrapolated from Bagnall and Frier, 2006; Bagnall, Frier and Rutherford, 1997.

Table 9.4  Apparently single women, divorced, widowed or not married, who reside with non-kin males (who may be the only adult male in the household)

Table 9.5 details single women who were stated as remarried. There are cases where the woman is recorded as having remarried; three of these were in their fifties, two in their forties, and two of unknown age. All of these cases are in urban environments and have children who were minor when their mothers remarried. In one case (187-Ar-32) the divorced wife is no longer resident in the house, and we only know of her because of the mention of the complex arrangements with the children from this and her previous marriage.

168

Families in the R oman and L ate A ntiq u e R oman Wo rld

Household Age(s) of poten- Family reference tially widowed/ divorced women

Location

117-Ar-7 (See also in Table 2)

?

3 married sons, 3 grandchildren, 3 slaves

Soknopaiou Nesos

131-Me-1

55

Remarried (remains declarant). 1 son (33), 1 new husband

Memphis

145-He-2

54

Ankyronon Remarried, new husband (50) (Herakleopolite) declarant, 1 son from each husband (?, 26), each married (16, 18), 2 nephews (30, 26)

173-Ar-11 (See also in Table 2)

48

Had 2 husbands, 1 daughter (32) and 1 son (14). 2 grandchildren (3,1) and 1 nephew

187-Ar-4

54

Remarried – lots of children, very Arsinoe complex.

187-Ar-22

40

Remarried (61, declarant) and has Arsinoe 2 sons (30, 18) and 3 daughters (22, 18, 5)

187-Ar-29 (See also in Table 3)

36

Has 2 daughters from 2 different marriages (13, 4)

Soknopaiou Nesos

187-Ar-32

?

Declarant has divorced 2 wives who no longer appear to reside in the house. Registration of children suggests that one of these wives had previously been divorced before marrying him

Arsinoe

201-Ar-2

?

Remarried (new husband, declarant) with 1 son from first marriage. 2 slaves

Tebtynis

Arsinoite

Data extrapolated from Bagnall and Frier, 2006; Bagnall, Frier and Rutherford, 1997.

Table 9.5  Apparently single women, divorced, widowed or not married, who remarried

Arrangements for minor children’s residence was perhaps the most important consideration for mothers after divorce or widowhood, and remarriage might not always have been the preferred option. Table 9.6 shows apparently single women, divorced, widowed or not married who have minor (or very young) children and did not remarry, nor live with either their own parents or siblings, nor their ex-husband’s family. There are nine cases of single women with minor children. One of these is in her forties, five are in their thirties, two in their



169

D eath and the Family

twenties, and one of unknown age. One (145-Ar-1) may be the common-law wife of a soldier, and as such not actually single, but none of the others had any other adult males in household. Of these examples most are in urban environments and result in families of small size. Household reference

Age(s) of potentially widowed/ divorced women

Family

Location

33-Ar-2

35

1 son (5)

Philadelphia (Arsinoite)

103-Ar-9

35

3 sons (5, 4, 1)

Karanis (Arsinoite)

117-Ar-5

30

1 son (10, owner of house), 2 daughters (8, ?)

Kerkesouha (Arsinoite)

145-Ar-1

38

1 son (13, apator) but common law wife of soldier? Herakles, brother of declarant and non-resident, as kyrios

Tebtynis

145-Ar-2

29

Stated as divorced, 1 son (unknown age, but likely minor)

Tebtynis

173-Pr-11

48

1 son (15, declarant).

Thelbonthon Siptha (Prosopite)

243-Ar-1

27

Declarant. 2 sons (6,?)

Arsinoe

243-Ar-4

?

Declarant, apator. 1 son (?) Arsinoe Possibly also a daughter

257-Ar-1

38

Declarant, 2 sons (5,1)

Arsinoe

Data extrapolated from Bagnall and Frier, 2006; Bagnall, Frier and Rutherford, 1997.

Table 9.6 Apparently single women, divorced, widowed or not married who have minor (or very young) children and did not remarry

For the sake of comparison, the residence patterns of widowers are detailed in Table 9.7. There are 17 widowers in the age range 26 to 62, 8 of whom are stated as having remarried.

170

Families in the R oman and L ate A ntiq u e R oman Wo rld

Household Age(s) of reference potentially widowed/ divorced women

Family

Location

11-Ar-1

55

Declaranat (widower), his 9-year-old son and his 70-year-old mother widow

Theadelphia (Arsinoite)

75-Ox-1

62

Declarant, lives with brother (also declarant and single), his child and his brother’s 2 sons (16, 4)

Oxyrhynchos

89-Hm-1

?

Declarant. Lives with 2 daughters Hermopolis (17, 14) and 2 sons (?, 20) and grandson (1)

131-Ox-14

?

1 son. Widower did not remarry.

Oxyrhynchos

173-Me-1

51

Lives with daughter (17) and son (1) each from a different wife

Memphis

173-Pr-10

49

Lives with his new wife, and his 3 brothers and their wives and children. Has one son (10) from previous marriage and 3 children with new wife

Thelbonthon Siptha (Prosopite)

187-Ar-26

57

Declarant, lives with 13-year-old daughter and 3 females (relationships unclear)

Karanis (Arsinoite)

201-Ar-2

?

Declarant, his (second?) wife and sister of first wife, age lost; son of declarant and deceased (first?) wife, age lost. Widower remarried – his sister in law

Tebtynis

201-Ar-9

26

Declarant (female, 74), her son (56) grandson, 26 (widower), widower’s daughter (6), his brother (46), his sister (56). Widower remarried, into 201-Ar-8

Karanis

215-Ar-4

33

Declarant. His (second?) wife (30), their daughters (3, 3), son (6) full brothers of declarant (29, 23), their wives (29), father of declarant (66). Widower remarried and has daughter with second wife and two children from his first

Soknopaiou Nesos (Arsinoite)



171

D eath and the Family

Household Age(s) of reference potentially widowed/ divorced women

Family

Location

229-Hm-2

57

Declarant, lives with son (8) and son(?) (6)

Alabastrine (Hermopolite)

243-Ar-3

31

Declarant: (widow, 36); their sons(16, 11, 7), brother of deceased husband of declarant, age 31 (widower); A., son of Aur. Ninnos and his deceased wife, age lost. Widower did not remarry, and remains with his deceased brother’s family and his son

Arsinoe

187-Ar-32

?

Arsinoe Declarant (?) divorced and has new wife (43) and son from first marriage (10). Divorcé remarried

???-Me-1

33

Declarant, lives with son (3)

Memphis

89-Pt-3

33

Lives with 2 sons (16, 9) and daughter

Ptolemais

89-Pt-21

45

Widower remarried and has 2 minor children with new wife, and one with previous wife

Ptolemais

89-Pt-33

?

Remarried and has one son from each marriage

Ptolemais

Data extrapolated from Bagnall and Frier, 2006; Bagnall, Frier and Rutherford, 1997.

Table 9.7  Widowers and divorcés

These tables illustrate the range of residence patterns for women who had divorced or become widowed, and reveal a certain degree of fluidity in terms of the decisions they made about their own, and their children’s, futures. It would be difficult to determine with any degree of certainty from census data alone the proportions of these women who chose to remarry (since marriages are only stated as re-marriages in the census when there are minor children) or the proportions of those who returned to their natal families after the dissolution of their marriage (since this is not stated in the returns for families with daughters of marriageable age). It is, however, possible to discern certain trends in the living arrangements of those who did not remarry, and these trends are suggestive of some degree of deviation from patterns expected from pre-modern, European populations. Widowed and divorced women at the upper end of the age spectrum, who had not remarried, tended to rely on their own adult children. In most cases they were already residing in the same

172

Families in the R oman and L ate A ntiq u e R oman Wo rld

household because their adult offspring were sons, or because their sons and daughters had married one another; the practice of brother-sister marriage adds an extra dimension to the residence patterns of divorced women in Roman Egypt, because when women divorced from their own brothers they were unable to live elsewhere, even when their ex-husband remarried, and this was perhaps by design. Younger widows and divorcées would not necessarily live with – and therefore not be wholly reliant upon – adult, male kin, even when they had minor children; this phenomenon appeared particularly in the cities where single women and their children could live without adult males in their households, or with non-kin adult males, perhaps lodgers. All this points towards a nuanced picture of independence for widowed and divorced women, certainly in terms of the choices they made about protecting their own and their children’s interests.

(In)dependence From the Hellenistic period of Egypt documents survive that reflect a tendency of widowed mothers to rely on their adult offspring for financial and other support, largely through complaints when those offspring for some reason fail to adhere to this custom; an often-cited petition from a widowed mother to a local official seeks redress for a daughter who has become involved with an unscrupulous character who now expects that daughter’s support.23 In the Ptolemaic period young men might become partially exempt from poll tax if they care for a widowed parent ‘chosen by their parents to support them in old age’.24 The salt tax registers from Ptolemaic Egypt are our best source of demographic data for the Hellenistic period of Egypt and list cases of widows and their living arrangements.25 Interestingly, there are no cases of widowed women living with their adult sons, only with their adult daughters, which results in a large number of all female households (the tax registers recognize the tax liabilities of women and designates them as such). Of the 49 cases of families which are known to be headed by women, 33 were single women households (that is, solitary women who have divorced, become widowed or simply never married).26 Since women required a guardian, it need not necessarily have been the case that widowed and divorced women needed either to remarry or to reside with male relatives in order to survive;27 from the study of the Roman data, above, it seems this tradition to some extent carried forward into the Roman period. In the Roman period, though a guardian was still required for women, there were ways in which women could use this requirement to avoid remarriage and dependence on male kin, particularly resident male kin and thus enabling them more practical freedoms.28 In some of the cases detailed in the census data discussed above, lodgers might be the only adult males in some households and it is entirely possible that lodgers and friends would be named as guardians. The choice of guardian for a widowed woman was important, and if she had minor



D eath and the Family

173

children then that choice became far more significant in economic terms; all minor children without fathers in Roman Egypt were under tutelage, and their mothers appear to have had a good deal of influence on the property they inherited.29 Given the demographic profile of the population and the likelihood of fatherless children as a consequence of high male mortality, up to a third of all property could therefore have legally belonged to those under 25 years old and, therefore, their tutores or curators.30 Property was still managed by a male since the woman was still legally under tutelage (tutela mulieris), but women still played a significant role in this. Guardians were usually nominated in the will of the deceased father or the nearest agnate male relative, and women could, if they wished, present a case of crimen suspecti tutoris against tutors and clearly had a lot of legal say in who would take on this role.31 Marriage contracts often made provisions for guardianship of the children on the death of either one of the spouses in order to allow the to be guardian of the children, often in conjunction with another guardian in the case of the mother’s survival, and other female relatives could act as guardians.32 The marriage contract of Chrysermos and Dionysia preserves the disposition of property for their eventual children.33 One marriage contract from Oxyrhynchus details Dionysius acknowledging the receipt of a dowry, to his bride Sarapous. A clause in lines 27–88 stipulates that Sarapous may nominate a guardian to act with herself and, should that guardian also die, she would act as guardian alone.34 Women themselves had acted as guardians for their children since the Hellenistic period.35 In the Roman period various contracts outline the activities of widowed mothers acting in a similar capacity; women landowners did not have to perform liturgies, and so wills often instructed mothers and grandmothers to assist guardians as well as to become guardians.36 Provision is made for guardianship of the children by the mother, and division of property, in wills.37 Aurelius Hermogenes, president of the boule at Oxyrhynchus, divides his estate is between his three sons, two daughters and his wife. A guardian is appointed for the three minor children and the wife is associated with this.38An authorization of a renunciation on a mortgaged land contains a petition in which a widow asks, as guardian of her son, to be allowed to resign all claims to an estate which her late husband had mortgaged, and which had been taken by creditors.39 A petition to an acting strategos from a minor complains about his mother committing fraud as his guardian.40 In another petition to an epistrategos Iulius Lucullus by Gaius Apolinarius Niger asks to be relieved of the duty of being guardian of a deceased veteran’s daughter.41

Conclusions The demographic realities of the ancient world were such that mortality rates were very high, which led to a very real risk of widowhood for both sexes, and fertility was equally high. Since women generally married earlier than

174

Families in the R oman and L ate A ntiq u e R oman Wo rld

men, and therefore usually married older men, it was generally the case that wives outlived their husbands. In addition to this divorce was relatively easy, and very frequent, in Roman Egypt (as was marriage). These factors led to a large number of single, adult women (widows and divorcées) in Roman Egypt who, most likely, had children. The prevalence and duration of widowhood are determined to some extent by the differences in age at first marriage for men and women and, male and female mortality, but also cultural attitudes towards remarriage for widowers and widows. Widowers tended to remarry far more frequently than did widows (marrying younger women), resulting in there being a lack of available and suitable partners for older widowed, or unmarried, women, if they did choose to remarry. Whilst we may never be able to estimate the proportions of widowed and divorced women who chose not to remarry, or how this proportion compares with those of other pre-modern populations, we can infer from the census data a range of trends in residence patterns for those who remained single. There appears to have been a great deal of variety in where widowed and divorced women chose to live, and on whom they chose to depend, and these decisions very across urban and rural families, and depend on socio-economic and cultural factors such as the prevalence of brother-sister marriage, or the rates of divorce, or numbers of step-children, among others. Widows were created young, but single women with children across the age spectrum were able to manage their property, and their children’s property without having to remarry – in fact, it appears to have been advantageous to remain unmarried in order to protect the children’s property. Widows clearly played a role in the administration of property; the absence of guardians except for the mother is evidenced by documents that demonstrate the mother’s taking of the guardian’s duties. Mothers appear frequently as the applicant for their sons’ registration in epikrisis documents,42 presenting their sons for apprenticeships,43 and arranging inheritances of their children’s behalf.44 The guardian was a useful tool for the widow in protecting her children’s inheritance and property, and her own independence, for example in a petition from Apollonarion to be released from responsibility of cultivating plots of crown land, we find a long sequence of communications about relinquishing liabilities as a woman for performing male duties, and these pleas are made through a guardian; Apollonarion made two petitions in her own name as solitary widow then another through a kyrios.45 Even within the constraints of the system of appointing guardians to women and children on the death of their husbands, widows and divorced women appear to have retained a good deal of independence in Roman Egypt.

Notes 1

The research on which this chapter is based was carried out as a Leverhulme Early Career Research Fellow at the University of Liverpool. I would like to thank for their support both the Leverhulme Trust and my colleagues.



D eath and the Family

2

175

The notable studies which pay attention to widows in historical societies are: Goody, 1990a, 1990b; Hanson, 2000; Herlihy and Klapisch-Zuber, 1985; Huebner, 2011; Kertzer and Karweit, 1995; Kertzer and Laslett, 1985; Krause, 1994–1995; McGinn, 2008; Parkin, 2003; Rathbone, 2006; Vuolanto, 2002. 3 For discussion of the relationship between nuptiality and the family, with reference to Roman Egypt, see Pudsey, 2011. 4 For an up-to-date discussion of the study of ancient mortality see Holleran and Pudsey, forthcoming, Introduction. For marriage in pre modern Europe, see Hajnal, 1965, 1982; see Pudsey, 2011, on the variety in pre-modern marriage patterns. 5 For historical demographic models of the impact of various factors on marital fertility see Coale, 1971; Coale and McNeil, 1972; Coale and Trussell, 1974; Pudsey, 2011: n.7. See also Wilson, 1985: 32–33. 6 In fact this is not only expedient, but necessary in the case of Roman Egypt where the data rarely differentiate between widowed and divorced women; the result of either widowhood or divorce is the same in demographic terms, though – a single adult woman who is in a position either to remarry or to remain single. 7 For remarriage and expectations of widowed and divorced women to remarry in Roman Egypt, see Bagnall and Frier, 2006, pp. 123–124; Bradley, 199, pp. 156–176; Humbert, 1952; Krause, 1994–1995, pp. 2–4, 81–95. In Athens, see Cox, 1998, p. 90; Gallant, 1991; Pomeroy, 1997, p. 16. 8 McGinn, 2008, p. 2. 9 The fourteen-yearly census is collected and analysed by Bagnall and Frier, 1994 and updated in Bagnall and Frier, 2006 with Bagnall, Frier and Rutherford, 1997. See criticisms of these data in Hopkins, 1980, 312–320; Parkin, 1995. 10 Taubenschlag, 1955, pp. 120–127. For the Greek world see Cox, 1998, p. 89 and Pomeroy, 1997, p. 120. On marriage and the family in Roman Egypt see Pudsey, forthcoming, 2011. See also Dixon, 1988, 1992; Evans Grubbs, 2002; Gardner, 1998; Garland, 1990; George, 2005; Parkin, 2003, pp. 203–235; Rawson, 1986, 1991, 2003 and forthcoming; Rawson and Weaver, 1997; and Saller, 1994. 11 On which see Huebner, 2011. 12 On which see Hopkins, 1980; Huebner, 2007; Shaw, 1987; Remijson and Clarysse, 2008; Rowlandson and Takahashi, 2009; Scheidel, 1996, 1997. For pre-Roman Egypt see Ager, 2005. 13 Bagnall and Frier, 2006, pp. 118–120. 14 Krause, 1994–1995; Bagnall and Frier, 1994; and Hanson, 2000. Krause had demonstrated that of the recorded women in Roman Egypt who were sexually mature, but under the age of thirty, 13–15% were widowed, age thitry to fifty years, 40%. See Hanson, 2000, 150; and Saller, 1994. 15 See Kertzer and Karweit, 1995 for similar patterns in nineteenth-century Italy. 16 Hanson, 2000, 151, based on the first edition of material in Bagnall and Frier, 1994. 17 See also Rathbone, 2006, p. 104. 18 Huebner, 2011. There is no firm evidence from which to conclude that remarriage rates differed from those of other pre-modern populations: see Arjava, 1996; Bagnall and Frier, 2006, pp. 124–126; and Beaucamp, 1992. 19 See Laslett, 1980, pp. 208–213 for variety of living patterns of widows from seventeeth century Britain and Europe. 20 These tables incorporate the census material from Bagnall and Frier, 1994 (used by Hanson, 2000) and update to include additional census material in Bagnall and Frier, 2006; and Bagnall, Frier and Rutherford, 1997. 21 See discussion below. 22 See for example Bagnall and Frier, 2006: 103-Ar-1, where nine lodgers reside with a family. 23 P.Lond.VII 1976 (253 BC) (= Rowlandson, 209). 24 See Parkin, 2003, p. 212. 25 Clarysse and Thompson, 2006. These data do not give use the same sort of demographic information as we find in the Romano-Egyptian census returns, not least because they do not cite ages, but they offer much in terms of household membership. 26 Declared widowers and widows and some female heads in the Ptolemaic tax lists: P.Count. VI 321 (c. 232 BC), widower lives with son and daughter in law; P.Count. VI 197–198 (232 BC),

176

27

28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35 36 37 38 39 40 41 42

Families in the R oman and L ate A ntiq u e R oman Wo rld

widow (Egyptian), . . otois daughter of Psenesis, is household head, with co-resident daughter; P.Count. VI 476–477 (232 BC), widow (Egyptian), ] daughter of Harbesis, is household head, with co-resident daughter, [ ]ion; P.Count. IX 30–31 (251 or 250 BC), widow (Egyptian or Greek) is household head, with co-resident daughters; P.Count. IX 71–72 (251 or 250 BC), widow (Egyptian), Senamounis daughter of Imouthes, is household head, with co-resident daughter; P.Count. XLVII 233–237 (230 BC), potential widow (Greek), Isidora mother of Apollon[ios], is household head, lives with two sisters, a female slave, and a brother; P.Count. VI 141–142 (232 BC), Thaues, Egyptian, with her mother Harphonis; P.Count. IV 60–64 (243–231 BC), Taimouthis daughter of Theophilos, Egyptian. Other members: male Monimos s. of Kleandros wife Esoeris daughter Demetria and maidservant Sostrate. Of this household there are four family members, three of which are female, and one maidservant. Relationship between female household-head and family of Monimos is unclear; P.Count. IX 46–49 (251–250 BC), T.[ Egyptian. Family of four, two of whom are female. male Horos s. of ? female Ti [ ??wife male Prot[… ; P.Count. XLVII 292–294 (230BC), Theot[ ] daughter of Pro[, Greek. Household of two. maidservant Nik[ military. staff: 1 maidservant. In ‘nuclear’ households the widowed parent remains the head and the children (even though they are grown) remain as dependents; in the extended household, a widowed parent lives in the home of son or daughter who has become household head. Dependent mothers are recorded more frequently than are dependent fathers (the only case of which is recorded in P.Count. VI 321). On the death of the male household head, sons not wives inherited the household and widowed mothers themselves became the dependents (see table for list). When the family had only daughters at home, then the mother might remain as household head in charge of the family. For example, dependence on daughters such as in the case of Haynchis (quoted and translated in Clarysse and Thompson, 2006, p. 300). P.Lond. VIII 1976 (253 BC). Husbands’ wills for Egyptian women in the Hellenistic period provided for widowed women, for example P. Eleph. II (= Sel. Pap.I 82.3–4) (284 BC) details property arrangements, P.Petrie2 I 3.76 (237 BC) on living arrangements and P.Dryton IV 18–21 (126 BC) on maintenance. Egyptian dependent women did not always reside with their dependent offspring. Widows and sons entered into contracts for financial arrangements, for example P.Tor. Amenothes II (145 BC); P.Enteux. 25 (222 BC). See also Pomeroy, 1997, pp. 221–222. Roman practices spread to the provinces in the guardianship of women: Vuolanto, 2002, pp. 204–207 and Taubenschlag, 1955. Vuolanto, 2002, p. 203. Vuolanto, 2002, pp.  203–207; Krause, 1995, pp.  12–22; and Huebner and Ratzan, 2009. On widowed mothers and their sons, see Beaucamp, 1992; Crook, 1986; Dixon, 1988; Gardner, 1998; and Krause, 1995, pp. 19–25, 220–247. Dig. 26.6.4.4 (Tryph.). Vuolanto, 2002, pp. 211–214. See Vuolanto, 2002. P.Col. VIII 227 (late second century AD – early third century AD). See also P.Gen. I 21 (284 AD), Arsinoite and P. IFAO III 5 (second century AD). P.Oxy. II 265 (81–95 AD). See also P.Oxy. III 496 (127 AD); P.Oxy. III 497 (early second century); PSI V 450.1–6 (second or third century AD). Further examples of such clauses in marriage contracts are listed by Yiftach-Firanko, 2003. Chiusi, 1994, 175. See Rathbone, 2006 and Rathbone, 1993, 87–88, 97 See P.Tebt. II 327 (180s AD); P.Oxy. VI 899 (200 AD). On grandmothers, see Vuolanto, 2002: 237–238. P.Mich. V 322 (46 AD); P.Mich XVIII 785B (47 or 61 AD). P.Oxy. VI 907 (= FIRA III 51) (276 AD). Mothers as guardians, with male guardians: BGU IV 1070 (218 AD); P.Oxy. LVIII 3921 (219 AD) Annual account of guardian; SB VI 9619 (184 AD); P.Oxy. VI 909 (225 AD), Sale of acacia trees; P.Oxy. X 1273 (260 AD) Marriage contract. P.Mich. V 232 (= SB V 7568 ) (36 AD). P.Oxy. VI 898 (123 AD). SB V 7558 (=FIRA III 30 (172–173 AD). See also P.Oxy. XXXVIII 2858 (171 AD), request to a city scribe for a 4-year-old boy to pay a reduced 12-drachma poll tax and become a member of the gymnasial class; P.Oxy. LXV 4489



D eath and the Family

177

(297 AD), application to register a child; P.Oxy. LIV 3754 (320 AD), application for registration of the birth a child, made by his grandmother; PSI XII 1257 (AD), a mother registers her son jointly with the owner of the property who may have been the child’s step-father; PSI LIV 3754 (AD), a grandmother registers the child as the father is away on military service. See Krause, 1995, p. 7, n.23. 43 SB X 10236 (= P.Oxy. II 322 descr.) (36 AD); P.Mich. II 121 recto. II 8 (42 AD), Collection of abstracts of contracts; PSI X 1132 (61 AD); P.Oxy. XLI 2971 (66 AD) Contract of Apprenticeship; P.Tebt. II 385 (117 AD) Apprenticeship to a weaver; P.Oxy. Hels. 29 (54 AD), Contract of an apprenticeship to a weaver; P.Mich. III 171 (58 AD), Registration of an apprentice. 44 SB XVIII 13301 (195 AD); BGU VII 1662 (182 AD). 45 P.Oxy. VI 899 (200 AD). See Rathbone, 2006.

Bibliography Ager, S. (2005), ‘Familiarity breeds: incest and the Ptolemaic dyansty’, JHS, 125, (1), 34. Atkins, M. and Osborne, R. (eds), (2006), Poverty in the Roman World, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Bagnall, R.  S. and Cribiore, R. (2006), Women’s Letters from Ancient Egypt, 300BC AD800, Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press. Bagnall, R.  S. and Frier, B.  W. (1994), The Demography of Roman Egypt, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Bagnall, R. S. and Frier, B. W. (2006), The Demography of Roman Egypt, (2nd edn), Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Bagnall, R. S., Frier, B. W. and Rutherford, I. C. (1997), The Census Register P.Oxy. 984: the Reverse of Pindar’s Paeans, Brussels: Papyrologica Bruxellensia, 29. Beaucamp, J. (1992), Le statut de la femme à Byzance (4e-7e siecle), Vols 1 and 2, De Boccard: Paris. Bradley, K. R. (1991), Discovering the Roman Family. Studies in Roman Social History, New York and Oxford: Oxford University Press. Chiusi, T. J. (1994), ‘Zur Vormundschaft der Mutter’, Zeitschrift der SavignyStiftung für Rechtsgeschicte, Romanische Abteilung, 3, 155–196. Clarysse, W. and Thompson, D. (2006), Counting the People in Hellenistic Egypt, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Coale, A. J. (1971), ‘Age patterns of marriage’, Population Studies, 25, 193–214. Coale, A. J. and McNeil, D. (1972), ‘The distribution by age at first marriage in a female cohort’, Journal of the American Statistical Association, 67, 743–749. Coale, A. J., and Trussell, T. (1974), ‘Model fertility schedules: variations in the age structure of childbearing in human populations’, Population Index, 40, 185–258. Cox, C. A. (1998), Household Interests. Property, Marriage Strategies, and Family Dynamics in Ancient Athens, Princeton University Press: New Jersey. Dixon, S. (1988), The Roman Mother, London and Sydney: Croom Helm.

178

Families in the R oman and L ate A ntiq u e R oman Wo rld

—(1992), The Roman Family, Baltimore and London: Johns Hopkins University Press. Evans Grubbs, J. (2002), Women and Law in the Roman Empire. A Sourcebook on Marriage, Divorce and Widowhood, London: Routledge. Gallant, T. W. (1991), Risk and Survival in Ancient Greece: Reconstructing the Rural Domestic Economy, Stanford: Stanford University Press. Gardner, J. F. (1998), Family and Familia in Roman Law and Life, Oxford: Oxford University Press. Garland, R. (1990), The Greek Way of Life. From Conception to Old Age, London: Duckworth. George, M. (ed.) (2005), The Roman Family in the Roman Empire: Rome, Italy and Beyond, Oxford: Oxford University Press. Goody, J. (1990a), The Oriental, the Ancient and the Primitive. Systems of Marriage and the Family in Pre-Industrial Societies of Eurasia, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. —(1990b), The Development of Family and Marriage in Europe, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Hajnal, J. (1965), ‘European marriage patterns in perspective’, in Glass, D.  V. and Eversley, D. E. C. (eds), Population in History, London: Edward Arnold Press, 101–143. —(1982), ‘Two kinds of preindustrial household formation systems’, Population and Development Review, 8, 449–494. Hanson, A. E. (2000), ‘Widows too young in their widowhood’, in Kleiner, D. E. E. and Metheson, S. B. (eds), I, Claudia II: Women in Roman Art and Society, University of Texas Press: Austin 2000, 149–166. Herlihy, D. and Klapisch-Zuber, C. (1985), Tuscans and their Families: a Study of the Florentine Catasto of 1427, New Haven: Yale University Press. Holleran, C. and Pudsey, A. (2011), Demography and the Graeco-Roman World. New Insights and Approaches, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Hopkins, K. (1980), ‘Brother-Sister marriage in Roman Egypt’, Comparative Studies in Society and History, 22, 203–250. Huebner, S. (forthcoming, 2011), Household Life Cycles in Graeco-Roman Egypt in Cross-Cultural Perspectives. A Cultural, Social and Demographic History, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press Huebner, S. and Ratzan, D. (2009), Growing Up Fatherless in Antiquity, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Humbert, M. (1972), Le Remarriage à Rome. Etude d’Histoire Juridique et Sociale, Pubblicazioni dell’Istituto di diritto romano e dei diritti dell’Oriente mediterraneo: Milan. Kertzer, D. I. and Karweit, N. (1995), ‘The impact of widowhood in nineteenthcentury Italy’, in Kertzer, D. I. and Laslett, P. (eds), Aging in the Past: Demography, Society and Old Age, Berkely, Los Angeles and London: University of California Press 229–244.



D eath and the Family

179

Kertzer, D. I. and Laslett, P. (eds) (1995), Aging in the Past: Demography, Society and Old Age, Berkely, Los Angeles and London: University of California Press. Kleiner, D. E. E. and Matheson, S. B. (2000), I, Claudia II Women in Roman Art and Society, Austin: Texas University Press. Krause, J. U. (1994–1995), Witwen und Waisen im Römischen Reich, 4 Vols, Steiner-Verlag: Stuttgart. Laslett, P. (1980), Family Life and Illicit Love in Earlier Generations: Essay in Historical Sociology, Cambridge. Laslett, P. and Wall, R. (eds) (1972), Household and Family in Past Times, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. McGinn, T. A. J. (2008), Widows and Patriarchy Ancient and Modern, London: Duckworth. Parkin, T. G. (1995), ‘Review of Bagnall, R. and Frier, B. (1994)’, BMCR, 20. —(2003), Old Age in the Roman World. A Cultural and Social History, Baltimore and London: John Hopkins Press. Pomeroy, S. (1997), Families in Classical and Hellenistic Greece. Representations and Realities, New York: Clarendon Press. Pudsey, A. (2011), ‘Nuptiality and the demographic life cycle of families in Roman Egypt’, in Holleran, C. and Pudsey, A. (eds) (2011), Demography and the Graeco-Roman World. New Insights and Approaches, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 60–98. Rathbone, D. W. (1993), ‘Egypt, Augustus and Roman Taxation’, Cahiers du Centre G. Glotz 4, 81–112. —(1982), ‘Two kinds of preindustrial household formation systems’, Population and Development Review, 8, 449–494. —(2006), ‘Poverty and Population in Roman Egypt’, in Atkins, M. and Osborne, R. (eds), (2006), Poverty in the Roman World, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Rawson, B. (ed.) (1986), The Family in Ancient Rome, New Perspectives, London and Sydney: Routledge. —(1991), Marriage, Divorce and Children in Rome, Canberra and Oxford: Clarendon Press. —(2003), Children and Childhood in Roman Italy, Oxford: Oxford University Press. —(ed.) (forthcoming), The Ancient Family, Oxford: Blackwell. Rawson, B. and Weaver, P. (1997), The Roman Family in Italy: Status, Sentiment and Space, Canberra and Oxford: Clarendon Press. Remijson, S. and Clarysse, W. (2008), ‘Incest or adoption? Brother-sister marriage in Roman Egypt revisited’, JRS, 98, 53–61. Rowlandson, J. (ed.) (1998), Women and Society in Greek and Roman Egypt. A Sourcebook, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Rowlandson, J. and Takahashi, R. (2009), ‘Brother-Sister marriage and inheritance strategies in Greco-Roman Egypt’, JRS, 99, 104–139. Saller, R. P. (1994), Patriarchy, Property and Death, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.

180

Families in the R oman and L ate A ntiq u e R oman Wo rld

Scheidel, W. (1996), ‘The biology of brother sister marriage in Roman Egypt’, in Morris, I. (ed.), Measuring Sex, Age and Death in the Roman Empire, Portsmouth: Journal of Roman Archaeology. —(1997), ‘Brother-Sister marriage in Roman Egypt’, Journal of Biosocial Science, 29, 361–371. —(2001), Death on the Nile: Disease and Demography in Roman Egypt, Leiden: Brill. Shaw, B. D. (1987), ‘Explaining incest: brother-sister marriage in GraecoRoman Egypt’, Man, 27, 267–299. Taubenschlag, R. (1955), The Law of Graeco-Roman Egypt in the Light of the Papyri, 332BC-640AD, (2nd edn), Panstwowe Wydawnictwo Naukowe: Warsaw. Vuolanto, V. (2002), ‘Women and the property of fatherless children in the Roman Empire’, in Berg, R., Halikka, R., Keltanen M., Polonen, J. and Vuolanto, V., Women, Wealth and Power in the Roman Empire, Acta Instituti Romani Finlandiae, Vol. 25, Rome, 204–243. Wilson, C. (ed.) (1985), The Dictionary of Demography, New York and Oxford: Blackwell. Yiftach-Firanko, U. (2003), Marriage and Marital Arrangements. A History of the Greek Marriage Document in Egypt. 4th century BCE–4th century CE, Beiträge zur Papyrusforschung und antiken Rechtsgeschichte, Heft 93, Munich: C. H. Beck.

10

Imperial Blood: Family Relationships in the Dynasty of Constantine the Great Shaun Tougher

Introduction In the hall of fame of Roman Imperial families the dynasty of Constantine the Great, also known as the second Flavian dynasty, has a reputation for intra-family conflict. Modern historians of the dynasty invariably comment on this aspect of its history. In this paper I want to consider this negative reputation further, and ask how deserved it is. I will suggest that the image requires some refinement, since certain sources are deliberately hostile and also because certain relationships and events are over emphasized while others are comparatively neglected. A readjustment of the picture makes the study of the dynasty significantly more rewarding from the point of view of the subject of ‘the family’, opening up a fuller and more nuanced set of relationships.1 I am concerned in particular with relationships relating to the sons and nephews of Constantine the Great, especially Constantius II and Julian, which highlights the significance of the latter as a source and questions the negative reputation of the former. Further, although the paper is concerned with an Imperial family I will suggest that studying such a distinctive but better documented family can reveal something of broader family values and thus aid understanding of the family in the Roman Empire in general.

Negative Images There is no denying that the family of Constantine the Great had its problems, witness the infamous deaths that litter its history, as well as several others that receive much less attention. From the reign of Constantine himself there is the notorious execution of his eldest son Crispus in AD 326, in mysterious circumstances, and the concomitant death of Constantine’s own wife, Fausta, reputedly steamed to death for her part in the events that led to the death of Crispus.2 Then, following the death of Constantine in AD 337, we have the most egregious event of all, the so-called massacre of nine relatives of Constantine, the responsibility for which is usually laid at the door of Constantine’s son Constantius II

182

Families in the R oman and L ate A ntiq u e R oman Wo rld

(AD 337–361).3 Of this massacre Burgess observes that ‘such a slaughter within the family of the reigning imperial family is unique in the annals of Roman history’.4 The victims were Julius Constantius, the half-brother of Constantine; Julius Constantius’ eldest son; Flavius Dalmatius, another half-brother of Constantine; the two sons of Flavius Dalmatius, Dalmatius and Hannibalianus; and four other nephews of Constantine. In addition to these deaths, however, we have from the reign of Constantine those of Maximian (father-in-law of Constantine), Maxentius (brother-in-law of Constantine), Bassianus (brotherin-law of Constantine, by marriage to Anastasia, Constantine’s sister), Licinius I (brother-in-law of Constantine by marriage to Constantine’s sister Constantia), and Licinius II (nephew of Constantine). Further, after the reign of Constantine, his son Constantine II was killed in AD 340 invading the territory of his brother Constans, and in AD 354 Constantius II executed his cousin Gallus. The family tensions that mark the history of the dynasty are strongly emphasized in several major surviving historiographical sources. Eutropius notes the ambition of Constantine and remarks that he ‘made war on Licinius even though he was closely related to him by marriage’, and executed him in violation of an oath.5 He asserts that Constantine’s character changed once he became sole emperor (having originally been agreeable and mild), observing: ‘First he persecuted his relatives and killed his son … and his sister’s son, subsequently his wife and afterwards numerous friends’.6 Zosimus, following Eunapius, arraigns Constantine for his ‘natural malignity’ and alleges that he converted to Christianity to win forgiveness for the deaths of Crispus and Fausta.7 In killing Crispus he says Constantine showed no ‘consideration for natural law’. He declares that Constantine had no compunction in breaking oaths to family members.8 In relation to the massacre of AD 337, Zosimus observes that ‘Constantius, as if purposely anxious not to fall short of his father in impiety, decided to prove his manhood to everyone by beginning at home with his relatives’ blood’.9 He attributes the death of Constantine II to the fact that Constans loathed him.10 Ammianus Marcellinus characterizes Constantius II as a cruel and suspicious emperor, and baldly states that his cruelty surpassed that of Caligula, Domitian and Commodus. He illustrates this by noting that ‘at the very beginning of his reign he rivalled their barbarity by destroying root and branch all who were connected with him by blood and birth’.11 A particularly intriguing source for family relationships within the dynasty is Julian (famous as the last pagan emperor, he reigned as sole emperor from AD 361 to AD 363), a member of the dynasty himself, for Constantine was his paternal uncle.12 In his diverse writings he has much to say about his family, primarily in relation to his cousin Constantius, who was the relative Julian had most experience of: from AD 337–361 Constantius II was emperor and had control over Julian’s life. Julian plays a part in the construction of the negative image of Constantius, for he attacked him in texts written during his usurpation and reign. The most celebrated is his Letter to the Athenians, written in AD 361



I mperial B l o o d

183

to justify his opposition to his cousin. Julian alludes to the massacre of AD 337 and the execution of Gallus. He declares: That on my father’s side I am descended from the same stock as Constantius on his father’s side is well known. Our fathers were brothers, sons of the same father. And close kinsmen as we were, how this most humane Emperor treated us! Six of my cousins and his, and my father who was his own uncle and also another uncle of both of us on the father’s side, and my eldest brother, he put to death without trial; and as for me and my other brother, he intended to put us to death but finally inflicted exile upon us; and from that exile he released me, but him he stripped of the title of Caesar just before he murdered him.13

He continues on this theme, alleging that Constantius thinks his childlessness is a punishment for this behaviour (and certainly appropriate for crimes against his family), and noting that Gallus was not allowed ‘to share the tombs of the ancestors’ (‘nor granted … a pious memory’).14 Family relations are emphasized again when Julian says that it was to please the grand chamberlain, the eunuch Eusebius, that Constantius delivered up ‘his own cousin, the Caesar, his sister’s husband, the father of his niece, the man whose own sister he had himself married in earlier days, and to whom he owed so many obligations connected with the gods of the family’.15 Julian also remarks on the rarity of his meetings in the flesh with Constantius, recording that he had only met him twice (once in Cappadocia, once in Italy) before the meeting in AD 355 which concerned Julian becoming Caesar.16 Julian provides further striking comment on his family in his attack on the cynic Heraclius (written after Constantius was dead), in which he presents his own life as a myth.17 Constantine is depicted as ‘a certain rich man’ endowed with livestock, servants, slaves and estates. Julian continues: Now much of all this his father [Constantius I] had bequeathed to him … Several wives he had [Minervina, Fausta], and sons and daughters by them … [S]ince he thought that a number of sons would suffice to preserve his wealth, he took no thought how to make them virtuous. But this very thing proved to be the beginning of their iniquitous behaviour to one another. For every one of them desired to be as wealthy as his father and to possess the whole for himself alone, and so attacked the brother that was his neighbour … And their relatives also shared in the folly and ignorance of those sons … Then ensued a general slaughter, and heaven brought the tragic curse to fulfilment … Now when all was in confusion, and many marriages that were no marriages were being concluded, and the laws of god and man alike had been profaned, Zeus was moved with compassion.

Zeus’ solution is to foster Julian, who is identified as ‘a certain kinsman of those brothers who had been cast aside and was despised though he was that rich man’s nephew and the cousin of his heirs’. Once again Julian emphasizes family

184

Families in the R oman and L ate A ntiq u e R oman Wo rld

conflict and its bloody result in the aftermath of the death of Constantine, who is held ultimately responsible since he did not attend to the moral training of his brood.18 Julian also points to a key feature of the Constantinian dynasty, which contributed to its difficult history: its complex marriage arrangements. Constantine had more than one partner (Minervina and Fausta), and had children by both (Crispus by Minervina; Constantine, Constantius, Constans, Helena and Constantina by Fausta) (though note Chausson’s suggestion that Constantine had a third wife and that she was the mother of Helena and another daughter, Constantia).19 Constantine’s father Constantius I had also had children by two different women (Helena and Theodora): Constantine by Helena; Julius Constantius, Flavius Dalmatius, Hannibalianus, Constantia, Eutropia and Anastasia by Theodora (though perhaps Anastasia was a daughter of Constantius and Helena, who might have had another son too, called Constantius).20 Thus Constantine had an extensive set of half-siblings, which lends the dynasty a particularly distinctive quality. The ‘marriages that were no marriages’ that Julian refers to seem to be the numerous cases of intermarriage between the children of Constantine and those of his half-siblings – the marriage of cousins: Constantius II married the daughter of Julius Constantius; Hannibalianus married Constantina; Gallus also married Constantina; and Julian himself married Helena.21 Frakes remarks that the Constantinian family tree ‘begins to approach Oedipean levels of consanguinity’.22 In addition to the hostile voice of Julian there are also Christian critics of Constantius II, elicited because of the emperor’s support of ‘Arians’ over Nicenes. Athanasius is prime among these, and like Julian targets the subject of difficult family relationships within the dynasty. In his History of the Arians, dated to AD 357, Athanasius indicates the depth of Constantius’ cruelty by recalling the emperor’s hostility to his own family. He illustrates this by the examples of Constantius’ murder of his uncles and cousins, and his poor treatment of his brother Constans as well as Constans’ intended bride, Olympias, whom Constantius is criticized for handing over to barbarians.23 Thus there is certainly extensive ancient testimony about the difficult family relationships within the Constantinian dynasty, and this feeds the modern, negative, impression of the history of the family of Constantine. It is important to appreciate, however, that this ancient testimony is particularly biased against Constantine and his sons, deriving from both pagan and Christian authors who were hostile to the family or particular members of it. It is worth remarking, however, that some positive images of family relationships within the dynasty do exist.

Positive Images As one would expect, Eusebius of Caesarea presents an idealized view of family relations in his Life of Constantine. There is no mention of the death



I mperial B l o o d

185

of Crispus, and the sons of Constantine are ‘virtuous and Godbeloved’.24 The massacre of AD 337 is obscured, it being reported simply that the soldiers agreed that the sons of Constantine should become Augusti.25 Ironically, however, Julian himself can also supply a positive perspective, for in his three imperial panegyrics (two on Constantius, one on Eusebia, written when Julian was Caesar to Constantius) he deals with family history again, though this time apparently presenting an ideal.26 His first panegyric on his cousin gives a flavour of the images he creates.27 The section on ancestors provides the opportunity for a more positive view of family relationships.28 The rich imperial stock of the family is emphasized: both grandfathers of Constantius II (Constantius I and Maximian) were emperors. The dynastic marriage arrangement of the grandfathers is presented in a favourable light: ‘Since they desired the most perfect harmony for their children, they arranged the marriage of your father and mother’ (Constantine and Fausta). The strong bond and association between Constantine and Constantius is highlighted: Julian declares to Constantius that Constantine’s greatest achievement was that ‘he begat, reared and educated you … your father seems still to be on the throne’.29 Julian also treats Constantius’ mother and brothers. Having commented on Fausta’s distinguished ancestry, beauty and virtue, he reflects: I have heard that saying of the Persians about Parysatis, that no other woman has been the sister, mother, wife, and daughter of kings. Parysatis, however, was own sister of her husband, since their law does not forbid a Persian to marry his sister. But your mother, while in accordance with our laws she kept pure and unsullied those ties of kinship, was actually the daughter of one emperor, the wife of another, the sister of a third, and the mother not of one emperor but of several.30

Later on Constantius II is praised for filial piety and sibling fair play: you adorned [Constantine’s] tomb not only by lavishing on it splendid decorations … but still more by the fact that you alone of his sons hastened to him when he was still alive and stricken by illness, and paid him the highest possible honors after death … In your dealings with your brothers, your subjects, your father’s friends and your armies you displayed justice and moderation.31

Notable also is Julian’s comment that although the usurper Magnentius’ crimes against Constantius’ house32 were ‘as flagrant as his outrages against the state’ the emperor paid less attention to them.33 Thus Julian praises his cousin for putting public concerns above private family concerns. Other sources can also present more positive views of family relationships within the dynasty, or at least more ambivalent ones. Like his contemporary Eutropius, Sextus Aurelius Victor wrote a brief account of the reign of Constantine, but his depiction of the emperor is generally more positive.34 This is expressed also in relation to Constantine’s dealings with family members. He

186

Families in the R oman and L ate A ntiq u e R oman Wo rld

emphasizes the negative qualities of both Maximian and Maxentius, and asserts that the former deserved to die. He contrasts Licinius and Constantine to the advantage of the latter, commenting for example on Constantine’s merciful nature in his treatment of enemies and abolishing of harsh punishments. He comments that Licinius only survived for so long because Constantine did respect the marriage ties with him. Interestingly he does mention the death of Crispus but comments that ‘the reason is uncertain’, thus refusing to condemn Constantine and allowing the possibility that the execution was justified. On Constantius II (under whom he was writing) Aurelius Victor also shows himself circumspect.35 He mentions that Dalmatius was killed after the death of Constantine but comments ‘it is uncertain at whose instigation’. He records simply that Constantine II died in battle. On Constans he is more critical, though he is quick to point out that Magnentius was worse.36 Gallus is censured for his cruelty and violent character, and thus is justifiably executed. Thus there can be alternative images to the more lurid blood drenched picture that exists, but these can carry less weight as those creating them were obviously constrained about what they could say and also because one tends to read between the lines and see the more negative interpretation emerging. It is also clear that the changing political and religious landscape affected how the dynasty was presented. Julian and Athanasius stand as watershed figures, attacking Constantius II especially on political and religious grounds, setting the tone for how family relationships within his dynasty were presented in the future. It should not be forgotten, however, that both negative and positive images are ideals, revealing far more about the agendas of the authors than the reality of family relationships within the dynasty. What is significant is that family is a locus for comment, either negatively or positively. Family relationships mattered in that they revealed the moral character of the historical actors. A Roman family was not meant to be at war with itself, and the imperial family could be seen as the Roman family par excellence.37

Neglected Family Members More significant for the appreciation of family relationships within the dynasty, I would argue, is that it needs to be recognized that these had a much greater complexity. Often ancient historians adopt a simplified narrative and this can obscure, if not conceal, other relationships which raise important questions about the family. There are a number of family members (and a series of relationships) that have not received sufficient attention, though there are exceptions, such as the important work of Chausson on the ties of consanguinity between the three imperial dynasties of the fourth century AD and the work of Vanderspoel on Julius Julianus (the maternal grandfather of Julian) and his family.38 Nevertheless, Chausson’s concern is primarily genealogical and Vanderspoel has a distinct focus beyond family history (being concerned with



I mperial B l o o d

187

the authorship of letters), and the ruminations of both on family relationships can become very speculative.39 What I wish to contribute here is an inventory of some particular family members who have tended to be overlooked or sidelined, family members who have especial associations with the sons and nephews of Constantine and have a particular bearing on the figures of Constantius II and Julian. I will identify questions about family relationships within the dynasty that the existence of these individuals gives rise to, even if answers are elusive or non-existent. What is vital is that the individuals and the issues are not ignored for they are suggestive of a more complex reality. The Wife and Child of Crispus When Crispus, the eldest son of Constantine, was executed in AD 326 he already had a wife Helena with whom he had had a child, as testified to by a law preserved in the Theodosian Code.40 The question of the identity of Helena is an important one. It has been suggested that she was a daughter of Licinius, but also that she was a granddaughter of Helena.41 Either hypothesis makes her union with Crispus a typical dynastic marriage of the era, presenting either a union of different imperial families or a marriage between cousins. What happened to Helena and her child after the death of Crispus is not reported (if, indeed, both or either were still alive). It would be interesting to know their fate, and what their relationship with the rest of the dynasty was. Some have suggested that the child was a female and the mother of the Justina who married Magnentius and Valentinian I, but again this is supposition; it has also been suggested, for instance, that the mother of Justina was a daughter of Julius Constantius and Galla.42 It is also possible that Crispus and Helena had had other children whom we know nothing about.43 The Wife of Constantine II It is reported by Eusebius that when Constantius II married his first wife in AD 335 his elder brother Constantine was already married, as one would expect.44 However, nothing is known about the identity of his wife, whether they had any children, or what her ultimate fate was.45 Given that Constantine I favoured keeping marriage within the family it is likely that his son’s wife would have been a relative. As noted above, the youngest son, Constans, was engaged to Olympias, whose father was Ablabius, praetorian prefect under Constantine (and another victim of the massacre of 337).46 Chausson has suggested that Olympias’ mother was a female of the Constantinian family, thus neatly making Constans’ betrothed a cousin too, but this is only a hypothesis.47 The First Wife of Constantius II In contrast, the identity of Constantius’ first wife is known: she was a daughter of Julius Constantius and Galla, so the sister of Gallus, and Constantius’

188

Families in the R oman and L ate A ntiq u e R oman Wo rld

cousin.48 However, her name is not recorded. When exactly she died (or was divorced) is not known either, though presumably it was not long before Constantius married his second wife Eusebia, in AD 353. Thus she was probably alive at the time of the massacre of AD 337, and one can only wonder at her reaction to this event, and how her relationship with her husband affected his relations with Gallus and Julian, if at all. It seems likely that she had no children by Constantius, or at least none that survived, given his quest for an heir. Nepotianus and His Mother Eutropia In AD 350, at the time of the murder of Constans and the usurpation of Magnentius, there surface in Rome two members of the dynasty, Eutropia the half-sister of Constantine, and her son Nepotianus.49 Nepotianus was acclaimed emperor in opposition to Magnentius, but soon killed by agents of the usurper, as was Eutropia. It has been suggested that Eutropia was the wife of Virius Nepotianus (consul in AD 336), but there remain many tantalizing questions about this mother and son. How had they ended up in Rome? Where had they been before this?50 What was their experience of and attitude to the massacre of AD 337? Their existence contradicts Ammianus’ clearly exaggerated allegation that Constantius II had destroyed his family root and branch, but also the oft-repeated ‘fact’ that Julian and Gallus were the only survivors of the massacre of AD 337.51 Burgess is so troubled by the existence of Nepotianus that he argues that this male member of the dynasty cannot yet have been born at the time of the massacre in AD 337, but was evidently still in his mother’s womb, even though this argument results in a very young Nepotianus being acclaimed emperor in AD 350 which seems not to square with other evidence.52 Vanderspoel notes that Nepotianus was a descendant of the female line rather than the male line like Gallus and Julian, so perhaps this made him less of a concern to Constantius.53 Alternatively, maybe they were not living in Constantinople or the East in the summer of AD 337, but even if this were true their continued survival is intriguing, and begs the questions, what was Constantius II’s attitude to them, and what had been Constantine II’s and Constans’ attitude to them? There is also the possibility that Eutropia had had other children.54 Eusebius, a Relative of Julian Eusebius, who had a distinguished ecclesiastical career (he was bishop of Berytus then Nicomedia and finally Constantinople), is described by Ammianus as a distant relative (quem genere longius contingebat) of Julian’s.55 It was in his capacity as a relative that Eusebius had a role in the upbringing of the orphaned Julian (a role also enjoyed by Julian’s maternal grandmother), but what the exact nature of the relationship was is uncertain. It is commonly assumed that Eusebius was related to Julian on the side of his mother Basilina (the daughter of Julius Julianus), who married Julius Constantius in about AD



I mperial B l o o d

189

330.56 Vanderspoel suggests that the bishop was a brother of Julian’s maternal grandmother, thus creating the appealing prospect of a pair of siblings taking on the care of Julian.57 However, it is notable that Eusebius also had close associations with the paternal side of the family. It is well known that he baptized Constantine at the end of his life (and was supposedly entrusted by the dying Constantine with his will),58 but before he became related to the dynasty through Julius Constantius he already had close ties with the family, for it is reported that when he was at the court of Licinius in Nicomedia he had influence with Licinius’ wife Constantia, the sister of Julian’s father, so the halfsister of Constantine I.59 It is clear that Eusebius was close to Constantius II too. The Daughter of Gallus and Constantina As Julian mentions in his Letter to the Athenians, Gallus was the father of Constantius’ niece, so it is clear that Gallus and Constantina had a daughter.60 They had married when Gallus became Caesar in March AD 351, and Constantina died in AD 354 shortly before Gallus, so the child was born between late AD 351 and AD 354.61 It seems unlikely they had other (surviving) children as Julian does not mention any others. The daughter’s name and fate are not known, though Chausson proposes that she was called Anastasia, that she did survive Julian and that she had descendants.62 If this is the case it seems rather odd that she is not referred to in Julian’s reign and that her existence did not become a political issue after his death. As for Constantius and this niece, again one can only hypothesize what his attitude to her was. Rufinus, Uncle of Gallus Vulcacius Rufinus had a distinguished career in the civil service from the early 340s AD to the late 360s AD, attaining the office of praetorian prefect and also the honour of the consulship (in AD 347).63 He also happened to be Gallus’ maternal uncle (avunculus).64 The fact that he held prominent office under both Constans and Constantius II is not without interest, and raises questions about how they viewed this uncle of Gallus, and also about his own relationship with his nephew. He does seem to have been suspect at the time of the fall of Gallus, but he clearly survived and continued his career later on, becoming praetorian prefect in the west in about AD 365, before dying in AD 368.65 One wonders also how Julian viewed Rufinus. He is not known to have played any role in Julian’s reign. Julian, Uncle of Julian Julian also had an uncle, who bore the same name.66 This Julian was a prominent figure in his nephew’s regime, being Count of the East from AD 362 until his death in AD 363. It is usually asserted that he was related to Julian on his mother’s side,67 so he would be Basilina’s brother and the son of Julius Julianus.

190

Families in the R oman and L ate A ntiq u e R oman Wo rld

His role in the reign of Julian, however, also raises questions about his survival through the reign of Constantius II, and indeed the nature of his relationship with that emperor. Constantius II clearly did not feel the need to eradicate this uncle, and it is possible that Julian’s career had progressed under the emperor: prior to becoming Count of the East Julian was governor of Phrygia, perhaps a role he had played before his nephew became sole emperor.68 Julian was a Christian before converting to paganism during the reign of Julian. He is reported by Theodoret to have had a Christian wife,69 but it is not recorded if they had any children.70 Procopius, a Relative of Julian Finally, I want to consider the case of Procopius, the usurper of AD 365–366.71 He is hardly an unknown figure himself, but deserves more attention than is accorded him in Frakes’ examination of the dynasty, where he is very much sidelined.72 It is reported that Procopius was a kinsman of Julian (propinquitate Iulianum), and a rumour circulated after Julian’s death that the emperor had given him his blessing as his heir,73 though this may have been subsequent propaganda on Procopius’ part. His association with Julian is certainly emphasized, however, by the fact that he was entrusted with the burial of Julian in Tarsus in Cilicia.74 It is usually assumed that Procopius was another relative on Julian’s mother’s side (like Eusebius and Count Julian). Some have suggested that Procopius was a maternal cousin of Julian, so a son of a sibling of Basilina.75 Certainly Ammianus stresses that Procopius’ imperial connection was Julian, not Constantius, and Julian did promote him from notary and tribune to count. However, Procopius was active under Constantius II too, being entrusted with a mission to Persia.76 Further, Procopius himself when usurper chose to emphasize his links with the Flavian dynasty (though this is not surprising in itself): he appropriated to his cause the widow of Constantius II (Faustina) and his posthumous daughter Constantia.77 This leads Chausson to suggest that Procopius was a descendant of Constantius I, but if he was it seems likely that his usurpation would have had greater support, or at least that he would have been a candidate for the throne earlier on.78 On Procopius’ family background Ammianus does provide the detail that he came of distinguished stock and was born and educated in Cilicia.79 This information takes on an interesting dimension in relation to Julian’s burial in Tarsus, which has been a source of puzzlement to historians. It has been suggested, for instance, that Julian chose Tarsus because the tetrarch Maximinus Daia was buried there too, or it was close to the site of Constantius II’s death and thus connected with Julian’s accession to sole power.80 Perhaps, however, as Vanderspoel has already proposed, Julian selected Tarsus because it had associations with his family.81 Regarding Procopius’ family it is also recorded that he had a wife and children.82



I mperial B l o o d

191

Thus there are a number of individual family members and relationships which raise interesting and important questions about the Constantinian dynasty, creating a much more intriguing and complex image of family relationships within the dynasty than is usually presented. But even more significant, I would argue, is the import of these cases taken as a group: they indicate, in particular, the need to have a more nuanced appreciation of Constantius II’s relations with his wider family, and the need to recognize the important presence of Julian’s (apparently) maternal family within the traditionally more dominant nexus of paternal relationships. Constantius II was surrounded by a much larger group of relatives than is usually appreciated. This qualifies, if not undermines, the image of him as ruthless eradicator of family, and illustrates that he could tolerate and deploy maternal relations of his paternal relatives. This may indicate that maternal relatives were not perceived as so significant (or such a great political threat) but does not mean that the place of Eusebius, Rufinus, Julian and Procopius in the reign should be ignored.

Conclusions Regarding the negative reputation of the Constantinian dynasty for internecine strife it is undeniable that murder and conflict do mark relationships within the family, but at the same time one must acknowledge that certain sources are deliberately hostile and intensify the stories for their own ends. Of these sources particularly interesting and arresting is Julian, for he was a member of the family himself. He can be extremely hostile to Constantine and his sons (especially Constantius II), though he can be (ostensibly) positive too. His testimony, both negative and positive, reveals something of assumed family values. One learns from him the ideals of appropriate family behaviour and also how vilely and violently these can be ignored (by inappropriate marriage or murder, for instance), his lessons transcending the imperial status of the family and being applicable to Roman families in general. His significance as a source is that he also seems to mark, if not create (Athanasius appears to have beaten him to it), a shift in the characterization of the family from one of ideal (if defensive) to its more familiar blood soaked image. It is also clear that modern treatments of the family history of the dynasty can overemphasize some relationships and sideline or even ignore others. To an extent this is explicable because of the nature of the surviving source material, which prioritizes the major political players (usually male),83 but it is also the result of a tendency to embrace simplified narratives. A whole series of relationships is underexplored, but it is their larger significance as a group that needs to be appreciated. This points to the fact the family history of the dynasty is much more nuanced, and also much richer. This benefits, in particular, the understanding of Constantius II and his reign. His family relationships are much more extensive and intriguing than has been acknowledged.

192

Families in the R oman and L ate A ntiq u e R oman Wo rld

Table 10.1  The descendents of Constantius I and Helena

Table 10.2  The descendents of Constantius I and Theodora

Table 10.3  The family of Julius Constantius



I mperial B l o o d

193

Notes 1

For a much larger project with a similar effect see Chausson, 2007, who is concerned to explore the ties of consanguinity between the three imperial dynasties of the fourth century AD. 2 Zosimus 2.29. 3 On the ‘great massacre’ see now Burgess, 2008, with bibliography. See also Chausson, 2007, pp. 134–136. 4 Burgess, 2008, p. 10. 5 Eutropius 10.5, (translated by Bird, 1993, p. 65). 6 Eutropius 10.6, (translated Bird, 1993, p. 66). 7 Zosimus 2.29, (translated by Ridley, 1982, p. 36). 8 E.g. Licinius: Zosimus 2.28. 9 Zosimus 2.40, (translated Ridley, 1982, p. 41). 10 Zosimus 2.41. 11 Ammianus Marcellinus 21.16.8, (translated by Hamilton, 1986, p. 231). 12 For Julian on the origins of the Constantinian family see for instance Chausson, 2007, pp. 50–57. 13 Julian, Letter to the Athenians 270c-d, (translated by Wright, 1913–1923, Vol. 2, p. 249). 14 Julian, Letter to the Athenians 270d–271a, (translated by Wright, 1913–1923, Vol. 2, p. 249). 15 Julian, Letter to the Athenians 272d, (translated by Wright, 1913–1923, Vol. 2, pp. 253–255). 16 Julian, Letter to the Athenians 274a. Again the eunuch Eusebius is blamed for this state of affairs, since he feared good relations being established between Constantius and Julian. 17 Julian, Against the Cynic Heraclius 227c–234c, (translated by Wright, 1913–1923, Vol. 2, pp. 131–149). 18 Constantine also receives particular attention from Julian in his The Caesars, and once again the family murders are alluded to: ‘But the avenging deities none the less punished both him [Constantine] and them [his sons] for their impiety, and exacted the penalty for the shedding of the blood of their kindred, until Zeus granted them a respite for the sake of Claudius and Constantius’ (Julian, The Caesars 336b, (translated by Wright, 1913–1923, Vol. 2, p.  413)). It seems that Constantine’s mother, Helena, was also attacked by Julian in his lost Letter to the Corinthians, for Libanius preserves a fragment of it in which she is cast as the wicked stepmother to Julian’s father Julius Constantius: Or. 14.29–30. 19 Chausson, 2002 and 2007, p. 109 and pp. 115–116. I do not see a problem with Helena being older than Julian when they married, so I would argue she could still have been a daughter of Fausta. If there was indeed a third sister, Constantia, she could have been a daughter of Fausta too. It seems unlikely that a third wife of Constantine would not have made it into the historical record. 20 For these suggestions concerning Anastasia and Constantius see Chausson, 2002, pp. 137–146, and also Chausson, 2007, pp. 120–121 and 127–129. 21 On the marriage of cousins see for instance Patlagean, 1977, pp.  118–128, Shaw and Saller, 1984, and Shaw, 1987, pp.  39–40. Shaw remarks ‘The law codes of the period maintained instances of cousin marriage as a possible requirement in testamentary depositions made, obviously, by wealthier families. But attested examples of parallel or cross-cousin marriage in social classes below the propertied élite in the period contemporary with Augustine (and earlier) seem to be limited mainly to eastern Mediterranean social contexts’. Patlagean notes the increasing prevalence of marriage between cousins in the Byzantine east and the reaction of church and state against this, but see also the comments of Giardina, 2000, p. 412, n. 74. Note, however, that Chausson, 2002, p. 154, understands Julian’s remark to be referring to the fact that Olympias was engaged to Constans and lived at his court but did not marry him. 22 Frakes, 2006, p. 96. 23 Athanasius, History of the Arians 69. She was married to Arsaces, the king of Armenia. 24 Eusebius, Life of Constantine 2.19.3, (translated by Cameron and Hall, 1999, p. 102). 25 Eusebius, Life of Constantine 4.68. 26 Though how one should read these is open to interpretation: see for instance Tougher (forthcoming).

194

Families in the R oman and L ate A ntiq u e R oman Wo rld

27 But see also Julian, Second Panegyric on Constantius II 94a-95a. 28 Julian, First Panegyric on Constantius II 6c–10a, (translated Wright, 1913–1923, Vol. 1, pp. 17–25). 29 On the presence of Constantine in the panegyric see Tantillo, 1997, p. 47. 30 These sons are praised too, and seem to include Crispus. 31 Julian, First Panegyric on Constantius II 16c–17a, (translated by Wright, 1913–1923, Vol. 1, p.  43). See also Julian, First Panegyric on Constantius II 33b–c, (translated by Wright, 1913–1923, Vol. 1, pp. 85–87: ‘between you and your brothers there never arose any dispute, either in word or deed, nay not one, for it was in fact more agreeable to you to share the responsibility with them than to be the sole ruler of the world’). 32 Presumably referring to the killing of Constantius’ brother Constans, but perhaps also to the death of Constantius’ cousin Nepotianus and aunt Eutropia. 33 Julian, First Panegyric on Constantius II 33d, (translated by Wright, 1913–1923, Vol. 1, p. 87). 34 Aurelius Victor, De Caesaribus 40–41, (translated by Bird, 1994, pp. 46–51). 35 Aurelius Victor, De Caesaribus 41–42, (translated by Bird, 1994, pp. 51–54). 36 He also reviles Nepotianus for his brutish nature. 37 See for example the remarks of Moxnes, 1997, p. 5, and Lassen, 1997, p. 113. 38 Chausson, 2007; Vanderspoel, 1999, esp. pp. 402–420. 39 For instance Chausson, 2002, p. 152, and 2007, p. 109, suggests that Constantine might have had a third wife, though he is open about the hypothetical nature of some of his suggestions. Vanderspoel, 1999, p. 418, himself observes that ‘much conjecture already occupies previous pages’. 40 Theodosian Code 9.38.1. For Crispus see Jones, Martindale and Morris, 1971, p. 233. 41 Chausson, 2002, p. 145, and 2007, pp. 121–122; Frakes, 2006, p. 95. 42 Chausson, 2002, p. 135; Frakes, 2006, p. 97. 43 Chausson, 2002, p. 153. 44 Eusebius, Life of Constantine 4.49. For Constantine II see Jones, Martindale and Morris, 1971, p. 223. 45 Chausson, 2007, p. 111. 46 Ammianus Marcellinus 20.11.3. 47 Chausson, 2007, pp. 150–152. 48 For Constantius see Jones, Martindale and Morris, 1971, p.  226. For the first wife see also Chausson, 2007, p. 111 and p. 113. 49 For Eutropia and Nepotianus see Jones, Martindale and Morris, 1971, p. 316 and p. 624. See also Chausson, 2007, pp. 129–133. 50 Zosimus says they came to Rome in 350 AD. 51 On this fallacy see for instance Tougher, 2007, p. 14, and also Chausson, 2007, p. 135. 52 Burgess, 2008, p. 10, n. 34. Burgess is particularly perplexed by the fact that Julian does not mention Nepotianus as surviving the massacre, but then why would he? It would hardly suit Julian’s purpose of attacking Constantius to acknowledge that there were other survivors. Further, when Julian was writing Nepotianus was already dead. It is interesting that Claudius Mamertinus, Speech of Thanks to Julian 13, characterises Nepotianus (together with Silvanus) as a usurper who lusted for power. 53 Vanderspoel, 1999, p. 408 and n. 50. This rather raises the question, why were Gallus and Julian left alive? 54 Chausson, 2007, p. 133. 55 Ammianus Marcellinus 22.9.4. Vanderspoel, 1999, pp. 410–411. For Eusebius in general see for example Gwynn, 1999. 56 See for instance Barnes, 1981, p. 398, n. 14 (and also p. 321, n. 79, citing Bidez). Barnes asserts that Gallus and Julian were related to Eusebius through their mother, though of course Julian and Gallus had different mothers: Gallus’ was Galla. See also Chausson, 2007, p. 126. 57 Vanderspoel 1999, p. 411. 58 For Constantine’s baptism see Eusebius, Life of Constantine 4.61–62, with the commentary by Cameron and Hall, 1999, p. 341. For Eusebius and the will see Philostorgius 2.16. 59 See for instance Van Dam, 2007, p. 274. It is interesting that Julius Julianus was also associated



I mperial B l o o d

195

with the court of Licinius, serving the emperor as his praetorian prefect from at least AD 315: Vanderspoel, 1999, p. 402. Vanderspoel, 1999, p. 411, suggests that ‘Julius Julianus may have been instrumental in the bishop’s translation to Licinius’ capital at Nicomedia’. 60 For Constantina and Gallus see Jones, Martindale and Morris, 1971, p. 222 and pp. 224–225. 61 One would indeed be very interested to know what Constantina had been doing since 337 AD (when her previous husband Hannibalianus was killed in the massacre): Chausson, 2002, p.  154, and 2007, p.  114. Philostorgius 3.22 reports that in AD 350 she appointed Vetranio Caesar in response to the death of her brother Constans and the usurpation of Magnentius, and that her decision was ratified by Constantius. Thus she seems to have been living in the west by AD 350, and an inscription in Rome testifies to her presence there between AD 340 and 350: Chausson, 2007, p. 114 and n. 45. Her name can be cause for confusion: Philostorgius names her Constantia. Chausson, 2002, p. 155, and 2007, pp. 115–116, suggests that there was indeed a third sister called Constantia. The sixth-century writer Peter the Patrician records that Magnentius asked Constantius II to marry his sister Constantia (though this could be an error for Constantina): Chausson, 2007, p. 116. 62 Chausson, 2002, pp. 146–147, and 2007, p. 114 and pp. 138–141. 63 For Vulcacius Rufinus see Jones, Martindale and Morris, 1971, pp. 782–783. 64 Ammianus Marcellinus 14.10.4. On the character of the avunculus and his relationship with his nephews and nieces in the archaic Roman family see for instance Bettini, 1991, esp. pp. 39–66. On maternal uncles and their special relationship with their nephews see also Patlagean, 1977, esp. pp. 118–125, and Bremmer, 1983, esp. pp. 178–184. A good late antique example is the close relationship between Ausonius and his maternal uncle Aemilius Magnus Arborius, as evinced in Ausonius’ commemoration of his uncle in one of the funerary poems (Parentalia) about various members of his family: 4.3. Ausonius indicates the closeness of the relationship by saying that he essentially considered Arborius as important to him as his father and mother, if not more so, and that his uncle was like both a father and a mother to him. Ausonius also writes about his uncle in his Professores, his poems commemorating deceased teachers: 5.16. On Ausonius’ evidence for the avunculate see also Guastella, 1980, though it is evident that the concept was not just owed to the Celtic world. Coincidentally, Arborius had close ties with the Constantinian dynasty. He befriended Constantine’s exiled half brothers in Toulouse and went on to teach in Constantinople where he became tutor to a Caesar (probably Dalmatius): see for instance Hopkins, 1961, p. 242, and Green, 1991, pp. 352–353. 65 Ammianus Marcellinus 27.7.2 and 27.11.1. 66 For Count Julian see Jones, Martindale and Morris, 1971, pp.  470–471. See also Chausson, 2007, pp. 126–127. 67 Ammianus Marcellinus 23.1.4 does term him Julian’s avunculus. 68 If Eusebius was related to Basilina perhaps it was Julian’s association with the bishop that recommended him to Constantius. 69 Theodoret, Church History 3.9. 70 Chausson, 2007, p. 127, wonders if Julian had maternal cousins. 71 For Procopius see Jones, Martindale and Morris, 1971, pp. 742–743. See also Chausson, 2007, pp. 146–150. 72 Frakes, 2006, p. 105, dismisses Procopius as ‘a remote relation of the dynasty’. Granted, Frakes is only studying the dynasty up to 363, but Procopius surely merited closer attention. 73 Ammianus Marcellinus 26.6.1–3. 74 Ammianus Marcellinus 25.9.12. Apparently Julian had designated Tarsus as his burial site himself. He had also intended to winter there in 363/4 AD. 75 Lenski, 2002, p. 69, citing Seeck and Vanderspoel, 1999, pp. 409–410, citing Béranger. 76 Ammianus Marcellinus 17.14.3 and 18.6.17. 77 Ammianus Marcellinus 26.7.10 and 26.9.3. Nothing is known of Faustina’s ancestry: Chausson, 2007, p. 112. Constantia went on to marry Gratian, the son of Valentinian I and Marina Severa. Lenski, 2002, p. 100, notes that Procopius was acclaimed in the baths of Anastasia, the sister or half-sister of Constantine I, though Ammianus asserts that this was because the legions were quartered there: Ammianus Marcellinus 26.6.14. 78 Chausson, 2007, pp. 147–150.

196

Families in the R oman and L ate A ntiq u e R oman Wo rld

79 Ammianus Marcellinus 26.6.1. Themistius, Oration 7.86c specifies that Procopius was born and raised in Korykos on the coast. It is also recorded that he had estates around Caesarea in Cappadocia: Zosimus 4.4.3. 80 Den Boeft, Drijvers, Den Hengst and Teitler, 2005, p. 319. 81 Vanderspoel, 1999, p.  403. Perhaps a further possibility is that Procopius, Ptolemy-like, hijacked the body for his own ends. 82 Zosimus 4.4.3–4.5.2. His wife may have been Artemisia, the wife of a usurper who became impoverished and had to beg in Antioch: see Jones, Martindale and Morris, 1971, pp. 111–112. 83 On this point see also Chausson, 2002, p. 151, and 2007, p. 14 and p. 135.

Bibliography Ancient Sources Ammianus Marcellinus, Res Gestae Athanasius, History of the Arians Aurelius Victor, De Caesaribus Ausonius, Parentalia Ausonius, Professores Claudius Mamertinus, Speech of Thanks to Julian Eusebius, Life of Constantine Eutropius, Breviarium Julian, Against the Cynic Heraclius Julian, The Caesars Julian, Letter to the Athenians Julian, First Panegyric on Constantius II Julian, Second Panegyric on Constantius II Libanius, Oration 14 Philostorgius, Church History Themistius, Oration 7 Theodoret, Church History Theodosian Code Zosimus, New History Secondary Sources Barcelo, P. (2004), Constantius II und seine Zeit: Die Anfänge des Staatskirchentums, Stuttgart: Klett-Cotta. Barnes, T. D. (1981), Constantine and Eusebius, Cambridge MA and London: Harvard University Press. Bettini, M. (1991), Anthropology and Roman Culture: Kinship, Time, Images of the Soul, (translated by Van Sickle, J.), Baltimore and London: John Hopkins University Press. Bird, H. W. (1993), Eutropius: Breviarium. Translated with an Introduction and Commentary, Liverpool: Liverpool University Press.



I mperial B l o o d

197

—(1994), Aurelius Victor, De Caesaribus. Translated with an Introduction and Commentary, Liverpool: Liverpool University Press. Bremmer, J. (1983), ‘The importance of the maternal uncle and grandfather in archaic and classical Greece and early Byzantium’, Zeitschrift fur Papyrologie und Epigraphik, 50, 173–186. Burgess, R. W. (2008), ‘The summer of blood: The “great massacre” of 337 and the promotion of the sons of Constantine’, Dumbarton Oaks Papers, 62, 5–51. Cameron, A. and Hall, S. G. (1999), Eusebius, Life of Constantine. Translated with Introduction and Commentary, Oxford: Clarendon Press. Chausson, F. (2002), ‘Une soeur de Constantin: Anastasia’, in Carrié, J.-M. and Lizzi, R. (eds), Humana Sapit – Mélanges en l’Honneur de Lellia Cracco Ruggini, Turnhout: Brepols, pp. 131–155. —(2007), Stemmata Aurea: Constantin, Justine, Théodose. Revendications Généalogiques et Idéologie Impériale au IVe Siècle ap. J.-C, Rome: Bretschneider. Den Boeft, J.; Drijvers, J. W.; Den Hengst, D. and Teitler, H. C. (2005), Philological and Historical Commentary on Ammianus Marcellinus XXV, Leiden and Boston: Brill. Frakes, R. M. (2006), ‘The dynasty of Constantine down to 363’, in Lenski, N. (ed.), The Cambridge Companion to the Age of Constantine, New York: Cambridge University Press, pp. 91–107. Giardina, A. (2000), ‘The family in the late Roman world’, in Cameron, A., Ward-Perkins, B. and Whitby, M. (eds), The Cambridge Ancient History, Vol. 14, Late Antiquity: Empire and Successors, AD 425–600, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, pp. 392–415. Green, R. P. H. (1991), The Works of Ausonius. Edited with Introduction and Commentary, Oxford: Oxford University Press. Guastella, G. (1980), ‘I Parentalia come testo antropologico: l’avunculato nel mondo celtico e nella famiglia di Ausonio’, Materiali per l’Analisi dei Testi Classici, 4, 97–124. Gwynn, D. (1999), ‘Constantine and the Other Eusebius’, Prudentia, 31, 94–124. Hamilton, W. (1986), Ammianus Marcellinus, The Later Roman Empire (AD 354–378). Selected and Translated, with an Introduction and Notes by Andrew Wallace-Hadrill, Harmondsworth: Penguin. Hopkins, M. K. (1961), ‘Social mobility in the later Roman Empire: the evidence of Ausonius’, Classical Quarterly, 11, 239–249. Jones, A. H. M, Martindale, J. R. and Morris, J. (1971), The Prosopography of the Later Roman Empire, Vol. 1, A D 260–395, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Kampen, N. B. (2009), Family Fictions in Roman Art, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Lassen, E. M. (1997), ‘The Roman family: ideal and metaphor’, in Moxnes, H. (ed.), Constructing Early Christian Families: Family as Social Reality and Metaphor, London and New York: Routledge, pp. 103–120.

198

Families in the R oman and L ate A ntiq u e R oman Wo rld

Lenski, N. (2002), Failure of Empire: Valens and the Roman State in the Fourth Century A.D, Berkeley/Los Angeles/London: University of California Press. Moxnes, H. (1997), ‘Introduction’, in Moxnes, H. (ed.), Constructing Early Christian Families: Family as Social Reality and Metaphor, London and New York: Routledge, pp. 1–9. Nathan, G. S. (2000), The Family in Late Antiquity: The Rise of Christianity and the Endurance of Tradition, London: Routledge. Patlagean, E. (1977), Pauvreté économique et pauvreté sociale à Byzance 4e–7e siècles, Paris and The Hague: Mouton. Ridley, R. T. (1982), Zosimus, New History. A Translation with Commentary, Canberra: Australian Association for Byzantine Studies. Shaw, B. (1987), ‘The family in late antiquity: The experience of Augustine’, Past and Present, 115, 3–51. Shaw, B. D. and Saller, R. P. (1984), ‘Close-kin marriage in Roman society?’, Man, 19, 432–444. Tantillo, I. (1997), La Prima Orazione di Giuliano a Costanzo: Introduzione, Traduzione e Commento, Rome: Bretschneider. Tougher, S. (2007), Julian the Apostate, Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press. —(forthcoming), ‘Reading between the lines: Julian’s First Panegyric on Constantius II’, in Baker-Brian, N. and Tougher, S. (eds), Emperor and Author: The Writings of Julian the Apostate, Swansea: Classical Press of Wales. Van Dam, R. (2007), The Roman Revolution of Constantine, New York: Cambridge University Press. Vanderspoel, J. (1999), ‘Correspondence and correspondents of Julius Julianus’, Byzantion, 69, 396–478. —(forthcoming), ‘The early life of Julian the Apostate’. Wright, W. C. (1913–1923), The Works of Julian the Apostate, 3 Vols, London and New York: Heinemann and Macmillan.

11

Written in Stone: Gendered Ideals and the Byzantine Family Eve Davies Age, gender and status are integral to the perceptions and expectations of an individual’s role within a family. Tombstones provide records of age, gender and status and offer a fundamental insight into how these factors impacted upon Byzantine family roles. Greek and Roman historians have exploited data revealed on ancient tombstones to estimate expected longevity, average age at marriage and differentiations between male and female Life Course models.1 Hitherto however, tombstones have only been employed by Byzantinists in order to understand attitudes towards death and processes of grieving.2 But epitaphs expose living people’s expectations of life too and express a formulaic record of the deceased’s valued attributes. Some epitaphs reveal the expected Life Course trajectory of the deceased, had they not died. A sixth-century epitaph states that the deceased was ‘unmarried’; implying that had the 22-year-old male lived, marriage was likely.3 The sentiments expressed are specific to the life stage and family role of the person commemorated and this data can be extracted to highlight contrasting expectations at different stages of life. The inscriptions play a fundamental role in giving us a greater understanding of the ideologies attached to societal and familial responsibilities in the eastern half of the Roman Empire. This study draws upon a sample of Byzantine tombstones that represents 1,386 individuals in 1,116 inscriptions: a minority of the inscriptions commemorate the death of more than one person. It is the argument of this paper that epitaphs normally perpetuate ideals about traditional gender roles: males are usually commemorated in terms of their occupation or public role, whereas women are usually commemorated in terms of their function within the family (daughter, wife or mother). The ideals revealed on epitaphs shift across the first to the eighth century AD, as the Roman Empire morphed into the Byzantine Empire. It will be argued that from the fifth century onwards, as tombstones became less popular, inscriptions were increasingly used to commemorate publicly prominent individuals, and were less interested in family relationships. Nevertheless, tombstones can be used to explore changes in family roles. Initially, it is important to contextualize the evidence exploited in this study. I will focus on Greek language inscriptions. The Supplementum Epigraphicum Graecum (SEG), which is the primary source of evidence, records all Greek

200

Families in the R oman and L ate A ntiq u e R oman Wo rld

inscriptions recovered and published up until 1995. This source of inscriptions provides a sample of data that enables the analyst to quantify tombstones of each century proportionally to one another.4 Unfortunately palaeographers are sometimes only able to date a script roughly to a 200-year period: my approach considers results only within a broad chronological framework. There are several reasons why Byzantinists have not been quick to follow the precedent set by Roman historians, and extrapolate data from epigraphy, in order to understand the family. First, the personal information revealed by Byzantine epitaphs is different from Roman epitaphs. In Byzantine epigraphic formulas, the dedicator usually goes unmentioned, making marital or parental relationships impossible to reconstruct. Furthermore, as will be explored below, age at death is rarely stated, proving it difficult to formulate statistics on longevity. The formulaic compositions produced in the Late Roman Empire usually reveal specific personal information in systematic order.5 In contrast, the information revealed on Byzantine tombstones is less standardized. Therefore, the methodologies employed for Roman epigraphic studies cannot be directly transferred to Byzantine epigraphic studies as the same set of criteria is not always revealed. New sets of information are, however, incorporated into Christian epitaphs. Carlos Galvão-Sobrinho argued that following Christianization, Latin commemorators began to include ‘death dates’ in epigraphic formulas.6 We see the inclusion of death dates in Christian Greek epitaphs too from the sixth century onwards, though the Greek choice of verb sometimes makes it unclear as to whether it is the date of death or the date of burial recorded.7 Mary Hoskins-Walbank and Michael Walbank have pointed out that the increased frequency with which the date of death appears could be linked to a law passed by Justinian in AD 537, which insisted on the obligatory dating of all legal documents.8 Recording dates on documents and stonemasonry may have been part of a wider trend of increasing accountability. But the inclusion of death-dates is likely to have been a mark of the Christian faith of the deceased too: Christian epithets portray the moment of death as a cause for celebration. One seventh-century epitaph reads: ‘Having lived in this life 52 years and departed to the ineffable beings of life on March 9, Indiction 15, Year 506 (612)’.9 Here, we can see that the date of death was thought to be a significant point of transformation and transition, worthy of commemoration. Galvão-Sobrinho coined the term ‘celestial birthdays’ to reflect the mentality of celebration of death, as promoted by Christian theology. Dorothy Abrahamse noted that commemoration of the dead, drawing upon the biblical model, took place on the third, sixth, ninth and fortieth days, and on the first anniversary after their death.10 It is plausible that the inclusion of death dates on tombstones served as a record for mourners to commemorate the deceased on the appropriate date, according to their faith. Similarly, in Byzantine monastic foundation documents, it is ordered that the anniversary of a specific death-date should be commemorated.11 The epitaphs attached a new significance to death-dates,



W ritten in St o ne

201

implying that the Byzantine Christians may have attached a new significance to commemorating the anniversaries of death. A second reason why methodologies cannot be directly transferred from ancient epigraphic studies is that the sheer quantities of preserved Roman inscriptions enable analysts to draw upon vast samples of data, which are often specific to a particular region. In contrast, Byzantine tombstones are relatively rare.12 This sample draws upon 1,116 Greek epitaphs, most which dates from the first through to the third century (Table 11.1: Quantity of epitaphs). The reduced quantity of tombstones after the third century could be explained in several ways: first, Byzantine tombstones were never produced in large scales; second, Byzantine tombstones have been poorly preserved; third, Byzantine sites have not received as much archaeological investigation as Roman sites. However, Stanisław Mrozek analysed the quantity of Latin inscriptions over a similar period, and the ‘Mrozek Curve’ presents a comparable pattern of epigraphic production for Latin inscriptions.13 Both the ‘Mrozek Curve’ and the data collected here provide evidence for a dramatic climb in the production of epitaphs until the second century, and then an equally remarkable fall from around the third century onwards.14 One would expect tombstone production to correlate with the prosperity of the Empire, but in the sixth century – a period of prosperity across the Byzantine Empire – the number of recovered tombstones remains comparatively low, suggesting that the abandonment of tomb inscription production was not related to the prevailing economy.15 Instead, the fall in the amount of recovered epitaphs is apparently linked to a shift in commemorative practises and new attitudes towards death. Century

Quantity of epitaphs in sample

First

150

Second

432

Third

314

Fourth

54

Fifth

80

Sixth

55

Seventh

22

Eighth

9

Table 11.1  Quantity of epitaphs

The decrease in the quantity of tombstones may be explained in terms of a new Christian perception of death and the afterlife, which was characterized by the reduced significance of the physical being and the increased importance of the soul. In Second Corinthians 5:6, we read: ‘Therefore we are always confident and know that as long as we are at home in the body we are away from the

202

Families in the R oman and L ate A ntiq u e R oman Wo rld

Lord’. While it is a hagiographical commonplace to note that God preserved the bodies of saints as proof of their holiness, saints were exceptional, and their unsullied dead bodies were recorded by the Byzantines to attest to a miracle: the existence of a permanent shrine to their physical being after death.16 In The Life of Luke the Younger (written soon after his death c.946/955), his disciples built a monastery in his memory.17 But most deceased people would not have been glorified with such grand commemorations. Eric Ivison has suggested that people turned to inexpensive, simple forms of remembrance, such as planting a cypress tree above a burial or embedding a piece of wood in the ground.18 Jean-Baptiste Humbert’s archaeological analysis suggests that some graves were marked by an oval arrangement of stones.19 Perhaps the decrease in tombstone commemorations can be explained by a shift in beliefs: the Byzantines, following biblical teachings, felt that the interred body did hold much commemorational value. On occasion, hagiographers hint at some of the problems involved in securing a place for commemoration. Niketas tells us that Saint Philaretos (whose vita was probably written c.822) located and paid for a burial place at a monastery before his death, presumably to ensure that he would receive a burial fitting to his own preconceptions.20 Male and female monasteries are presented as the most appropriate place for burial for lay people, as well as for nuns and monks.21 It seems that finding an appropriate interment spot required consideration and sometimes proved to be challenging as the location of interment held symbolic meaning. In The Life of Saint Lazaros of Mount Galesion (written soon after his death c.1053), Gregory the Cellarer reveals that the monks were concerned about where to bury the deceased Saint, as the place of his burial could lead to metropolitan control of the land.22 In the Roman period, specific sites outside of the city walls were dedicated to the burial of the dead. However, it seems that by the seventh century, if not before, bodies could be buried inside the city walls.23 As places of burial became integrated into living spaces, the tombstone record diminishes, as grave markers are more easily destroyed in densely populated urban areas, so reducing the amount of archaeological evidence available today. A third reason why Byzantine tombstones have not been used before to understand the age and timings of family role transitions, as Roman tombstones have, is because they do not reveal age at death as often as Roman epitaphs. Richard Saller and Brent Shaw have noted that in their samples of Latin epitaphs between 15 per cent and 33 per cent of tombstones detail age at death, depending on region, period and social class.24 Between the first to eighth centuries AD, an average of only 14 per cent of Greek tombstones reveals age at death. On the one hand, the Byzantines may have considered age in life to be irrelevant in death. This reasoning seems unlikely as it has already been shown that the Byzantines sometimes noted marital status and some family relationships, which denoted the deceased’s life stage. On the other hand, the Byzantines may have tended not to record numerical age on tombstones because they did



W ritten in St o ne

203

not have an accurate idea of the deceased’s age at death. This explanation seems more likely as the paucity of Byzantine numerical age data is not restricted to epigraphic data but it is a problem that is common among written sources too.25 The decreasing frequency of age statements on epitaphs, as shown in Table 11.2, implies that the Byzantines may have had only vague concepts of their own and their family members’ numerical ages.

Gender The proportional representation of male and female tombstones is that roughly one in three epitaphs represent females in the first and second century, nearly one in two represent females in the third century, before returning to one in three epitaphs in the fourth and fifth centuries: the proportions plummet to one in four epitaphs representing females in the sixth and seventh centuries, but again return to one in three in the eighth century (when, however, the sample is too small to be reliable). In Évelyne Patlagean’s study of all types of inscriptions, she found a ratio of 37 per cent female and 63 per cent male dedications: roughly one in three epitaphs remembered females. This is comparable to Latin inscriptions, in which 31 per cent – 48 per cent commemorated females and 52 per cent – 69 per cent commemorated males, depending upon the region: varying between one in three and one in two female epitaphs.26 The pattern suggests that when tombstone production was comparatively low in the sixth and seventh centuries, women were less likely to be commemorated. By contrast, when tombstone production was relatively high, women are represented in higher proportions. This supports the argument that when fewer tombstones were produced, those made were dedicated to male elite individuals who embodied greatest ideological value because of their publicly visible roles.27 Neither male nor female tombstones consistently employ age at death proportionately more than the other. The data suggests that at times when age at death was a relatively popular inclusion in epitaphs, namely during the second, fourth, sixth and seventh centuries, it was popular in both male and female commemorations (Table 11.2: Percentage of male and female inscriptions including age at death). Equally, in the first, third, fifth and eighth century, dedications for men and women followed the same tendencies and are less likely to reveal age at death. This data shows us that the inclusion of age statements in epigraphic formulas was not determined by gender but by contemporary trends. The biggest discrepancies between the proportion of male and female dedications revealing age at death occur in the fourth and seventh centuries. These are two of the centuries in which tombstone production was dramatically reduced as compared to preceding periods, and consequently the study draws upon smaller samples, which may not accurately reflect the inclusion of age statements. Be that as it may, the bulk of the evidence suggests that the inclusion of an age statement was not normally gender specific.

204

Families in the R oman and L ate A ntiq u e R oman Wo rld

Century First Second

Male

Female

7%

10%

19%

14%

Third

8%

6%

Fourth

14%

27%

Fifth

6%

7%

Sixth

11%

18%

Seventh

33%

17%

Eighth

0%

0%

Table 11.2  Percentage of male and female inscriptions including age at death

Status Lefebvre analysed the format of the Christian inscriptions of Egypt from the second to twelfth centuries. He looked at religious formulas and acclamations and the titles and professions listed on the epitaphs, and concluded that: ‘La veritable épitaphe chrétienne ignore ca condition mortelle …’.28 One might suggest that Christianity prompted a new egalitarian outlook to the construction of epitaphs, which overlooked the ideologies pertaining to gender, status, profession and age, but Mark Handley warns against such a stance: ‘It is perhaps all too easy to get caught up in Early Christian notions of equality before the eyes of God. The social reality was markedly different’.29 As we will see below, contrary to Lefebvre’s findings, status and profession frequently feature in epitaphs. In the sixth century, the average cost of a grave has been estimated to be one and a half to two gold nomisma; naturally, the rich had the best access to tombstone commemoration.30 For example, one seventh-century tombstone reads: ‘Here lies the servant of God Sergios, in remembrance of him being of high repute, former eparch and dux.’31 But it would be wrong to assume that tombstone commemorations were restricted to the very upper echelons of society. In some instances, the wealthy sectors of society commemorated their slaves and attendants. Another tombstone reads: ‘Primus, the esteemed servant, lies in this grave.’32 While it was conceivable that people of all statuses could be commemorated, the act of organizing a commemoration was only accessible to those with the means to pay for it. The evidence suggests that from the fifth century onwards, tombstone commemoration became more widely accessible. This is attested by the wide arrays of occupations that begin to appear in commemorations. Professions represented in the epitaphs, include builders, butchers, barbers, shoemakers, glassworkers, stonecutters, midwives and bath attendants.33 A few examples



W ritten in St o ne

205

from the sample include Eutyches, who died aged 21 and is recorded to have been an anagnostes (reader), Joannes, who died aged 28 and is recorded to have been a pinkernes (emperor’s cup-bearer), and Alexandros, who died aged 58 and is recorded to have been an agnafarios (clothes-maker).34 Publicly visible people, of professional statuses, were perceived as valuable and worthy of commemoration from the fifth century onwards. There are several reasons which would explain why tombstones became more accessible to people of a wide array of statuses. Factors affecting people of different statuses, such as a decrease in the price of tombstones, may have, in part, contributed to this increase in the accessibility of tombstones. But some occupations are more frequently attested than others. For example, Eriki Sironen’s publication of excavated inscriptions records that church readers were commonly commemorated, accounting for 9 out of the 44 professionals listed.35 We may understand that it was the custom for churches to pay for their employees’ commemorations, or, that they could obtain preferential burial rates. In other words, access to epitaphs was determined by a person’s specific occupation. Handley has suggested that in the west, people of all statuses were able to join ‘burial clubs’ specific to their professional group.36 Although we have no written confirmation, the high prevalence of specific professions could be seen as evidence supporting the concept that burial clubs did exist in Byzantium, as well as the west. Since we have found professional status to impact upon an individual’s access to tombstone commemorations from the fifth century, we may expect the proportional representation of women (who tended not to work in public roles) to be reduced.37 Correspondingly, from the fourth century, male tombstones increasingly outnumber female tombstones (Figure 11.1). Most women are commemorated in connection with their husband’s occupation. For instance, Hoskins-Walbank and Walbank cite a woman’s sixth-century tombstone that was made using a pre-cut inscription, with spaces left for personally specific snippets of information such as the woman’s name, her husband’s name and occupation and the date of her death.38 As this tombstone was a pre-cut inscription, it must have used a standard epigraphic formula, applicable to most deceased wives. Therefore, it is safe to presume that in deceased wives’ commemorations, the husbands’ professional statuses warranted mention, which emphasizes that while women were primarily identified in terms of their marital status and their husbands’ professional status, their husbands were primarily defined in terms of their own professional status. Indeed, some women are commemorated in conjunction with a profession. In one fifth or sixth century example, a midwife is commemorated.39 In another example from the same period, an epitaph reads: ‘The sepulchre of Euphemia the manager, a virginal woman of 45 years, prudent and having her hand ready for benefice according to her ability’.40 But in this instance, even though the professional status of the woman is revealed, her unmarried status as a ‘virgin’ continued to be a significant statement within the commemorative data.

206

Families in the R oman and L ate A ntiq u e R oman Wo rld

350

300 Series1 Male 250

Series2 Female

200

150

100

50

0 1st century

2nd century

3rd century

4th century

5th century

6th century

7th century

8th century

Figure 11.1  Quantity of male and female inscriptions

Indeed, the very exclusion of named husband may have implied that the woman was unmarried. This reiterates the point that marital status primarily defined a woman’s identity, second to her or her husband’s professional status.

Age The first limitation of focusing on numerical age is that a numeral does not provide information about a person’s family role. Age data is meaningless without supplementary information about the associated societal norms and so it is used in conjunction with additional information revealed in the epitaphs and compared to Life Course models constructed in texts of the same period. A second limitation to focusing on numerical records is that the stated age is not necessarily factual or accurate. Angeliki Laiou argues that age was usually unmentioned in the fourteenth-century pratika because it was largely unknown.41 In taxation records, it was only thought to be important to mention age when the individual was exceptionally young or old.42 Similarly, in hagiography, Lisa Alberici noted that age statements were used to emphasize that a saint was particularly young or old, and may have been subject to exaggeration.43 This suggests that, ideologically, numerical age was perceived only to be significant at specific stages of life, not consistently throughout the Life Course. Age statements are usually provided in isolated cases, when the deceased is either exceptionally young or old. The ages 28 to 48 are very poorly attested in the epigraphic record (for example, see Figure 11.2). But Laiou found that in fifth- to sixth-century Byzantine Egypt, after precarious infancy, the average



207

W ritten in St o ne

14

12 Series1 Male

10

Female Series2

8

6

4

2

0 0-7 years

8-14 years

15-21 years

22-28 years

29-35 years

36-42 years

43-49 years

50-56 years

57-63 years

64-70 years

71-77 years

78-84 years

85-91 years

92-98 years

Figure 11.2  Age at death on second-century tombstones

life expectancy was 44.7 years for men and 42.4 years for women.44 One would consequently expect, if age on tombstones were representative of demographic age at death, the 28 to 48 age-bracket to be the most commonly attested age at death. The fact that it is the least attested age-bracket suggests that age at death was only documented on a tombstone if it was an exceptionally long or short life. Ages arising most often in tombstone records denote periods of the Life Course which were perceived to be significant. The ages arising least often denote stages within the Life Course when either it was not thought appropriate to produce a tombstone for the deceased (for example, neonates), or stages when age was not thought to be of significance (for example, people who died at an average or expected age of death).45 Louise Revell pointed out that there is no way of proving that age-commemoration patterns reflect mortality rates: ‘… not all the inscriptions give the age of the deceased, and it is impossible to know whether those that do are a representative sample of the age structure of all those commemorated with funerary markers’.46 Age at death was included in epigraphic formulas by the commemorator when the life stage of the deceased was thought to hold social significance. For this reason, the data used here will not be used to produce statistics on longevity, but instead, to understand the symbolic significance of commonly attested ages in conjunction with family roles. A further limitation of using age statements to understand family role trajectories is that age-rounding took place. Rounding to an age ending in either zero or five is common on Roman tombstones.47 In Byzantine tombstones, the numeral five is not as prevalent. Out of the 25 tombstones that provide ages in

208

Families in the R oman and L ate A ntiq u e R oman Wo rld

our sixth to eighth century sample, only one ends in the number five, which equates to a 4 per cent occurrence, compared to the expected 10 per cent occurrence of an age ending in any given numeral (zero to nine). In fact, this data indicates that the Byzantines avoided the number five. The lower prevalence of the numeral five in Greek as opposed to Latin inscriptions can be explained in terms of the effort needed to carve the numerals. In Latin, numbers ending in zero or five would be the least complex numerals to inscribe as they consisted of the least amount of individual digits. For example, ending in a combination of V X and L, the numerals ending in zero and five, are shorter than the numerals endings in three (III) or eight (VIII). Byzantine Greek inscriptions, not adhering to the practises attached to the employment of Latin numerals, had no reason to round to five. In practice, the Greek numeral 10 (ι’) would have been simpler to inscribe than 15 (ιε’) and would also take up less space. This is an important point, as we have seen that some tombstones were pre-cut and the space left for age on a tombstone may have been predetermined.48 Utilizing rounded-ages enabled the inscriber to use digits that took up less space and were less time consuming to inscribe. Consequently, it is unsurprising that the Byzantines did not round to five, as the Latin inscribers did, as the Greek numeral five did not reduce the space and effort required. Classical historians found that age rounding was more prevalent among adults’ ages than children’s ages, presumably because it is easier to keep count of the age of a younger person.49 Our sixth–eighth century sample has been split into two sections: inscriptions recording ages under 20 and inscriptions recording ages of people 20 years old and above. The significance of the age 20 is not used here to imply that Byzantines perceived maturation to occur at this age, but in order to ensure that the data is analysed using the proportional range of the numbers zero to nine. In the sample of ages under 20, two of the ten inscriptions recorded the age 10, resulting in 20 per cent occurrence of age ending in zero. In the sample of inscriptions over 20 years old, three of the 15 numerals end in zero, meaning that there is a 20 per cent occurrence here too. In both groups, this figure is 10 per cent higher than one would expect if age rounding did not occur. The data shows that, in contrast to findings in Roman studies, in both commemorations for under 20 and over 20-year-olds, rounding consistently occurred.50 This small sample must be taken in context but it might be suggested that the Byzantines rounded to ages ending in zero both before and after maturation. However, it was clearly more important to be specific about the age at death when commemorating infants. All of the children in this sample under the age of three are attributed a specific age. For instance, one is said to be ‘five months and seven days’, another ‘almost two’, and another ‘two years, … months, two days’.51 The emphasis on the precise record of age in infancy emphasized the short length of the child’s life, contrary to the parents’ hopes and expectations, and alluded to the importance of each day; it also conveyed the care and affection of the parents, who had kept record of their child’s exact



W ritten in St o ne

209

age. It would have been easier to document a specific and accurate age for a younger individual, outlived and witnessed by others. Talbot has suggested that wealthier Christian families commemorated the sadness of their child’s fleeting lifespan with the symbolically meaningful more permanent tombstone.52 It was important to include a precise and detailed age-statement on infant commemorations, in order to emphasize the short life and the care of the parents, who were able to record their child’s age with precision. The significance of numerical age was transitive, depending on the age and status of the commemorated. An exceptional case of a specific age being recorded for an adult is recorded on Philosophia’s sixth-century tombstone. She is recorded to have lived 29 years, 2 months and 15 days.53 This is the only example in the sample of an adult tombstone recording age at death in terms of months and days, in addition to years. Despite the fact that the woman was married and her husband set up the memorial for her, she was buried collectively with her parents. Perhaps she was not buried with her husband because the woman died childless.54 The inclusion of the wife’s age, but not the parents’ ages, distinguishes her as of a separate generation and the utilization of a precise age statement, normally used in infant’s epitaphs, emphasizes her status as her parent’s daughter and not as her husband’s wife. We have seen that in female commemorations, marital status primarily defined her identity. But in this example, we may deduce that – in addition to marital status – female identity consisted of maternal status too. The ages and family roles revealed on tombstones can provide vital information about the disparity in expectations between males and females. Focusing on the second century (a quantitatively rich sample), significant periods of the Life Course occur in the age ranges 22 to 28 and 64 to 70 for men and 15 to 22 and 50 to 63 for women (Figure 11.2: Age at death on second-century tombstones). The highly attested ages occur earlier in the female Life Course than in the male Life Course. This could suggest that women were perceived to reach significant stages of their life earlier than men. Legal codes reflect a similar discrepancy between the rates of maturity for men and women. In the sixth century, girls could legally marry at 12 whereas boys could marry at 14.55 By the seventh century, the minimum age for marriage progresses to 13 for girls and 15 for boys: gender distinctions were maintained.56 Byzantine hagiographies reveal that, at least in Byzantine rhetoric, early betrothal and marriage for women was a sign of the beauty and the desirable nature of the girl.57 For men, mental acuity, which was perceived to develop with age, was seen as an indication of the man’s readiness for marriage.58 In marriage, wives were valued for their physical development and reproductive role, whereas men were valued for protecting the family entity, which depended on the husband’s maturity and mental acuity.59 It is arguable that social expectations of female familial responsibilities were achievable earlier in the developmental process than social expectations of male familial responsibilities. Taken together, the evidence suggests that women were expected to progress into the role of a spouse quicker

210

Families in the R oman and L ate A ntiq u e R oman Wo rld

than their male counterparts. This reveals different social expectations of men and women of the same age. In Roman and Byzantine inscriptions, women of pre-marriageable age are featured more frequently than women of marriageable age. There are several potential explanations for this pattern. First, Revell noted that the drop in commemorations around the age of 30 for Roman women may have been because the grieving relatives perceived the woman’s life to have been fulfilled, having achieved marriage and motherhood.60 As we have seen, the Byzantine tombstones suggest that marriage and motherhood were defining boundaries in the female Life Course; after these had been achieved, the woman’s life was thought to be fulfilled and there was less need to commemorate the deceased’s demise. Second, women of marriageable and mothering ages could be hidden in the epigraphic data due to collective familial commemorations, omitting individual names.61 Patlagean found that in collective inscriptions, married daughters are nearly always omitted from familial inscriptions.62 In the previously mentioned sixth-century gravestone of Philiosophia, her husband and dedicator chose to bury Philiosophia with her parents, perhaps freeing him to remarry, produce children and ultimately be buried with another family unit. While unmarried or childless women may have been buried with their natal family, married and mothering women may have been commemorated with their spouses’ families, reflecting a change of familial allegiance for women. Third, Christianity placed a high value on virgins, who – being unmarried – were more likely to be commemorated individually and therefore show up on the epigraphic record. Hagiographies emphasize the difficulty women had in resisting marriage and we may deduce that most of the commemorated unmarried virgins died when they were young.63 However, women who remained chaste and unmarried beyond the normal age of marriage, known as ‘Brides of Christ’, are recorded too.64 At Aphrodisias, an inscription recording a female virgin, dated between the fourth and sixth century reads: ‘Claudia, Justice has honoured you with (the) tomb of the dead, and has wedded your pure body (with it as a) lawful husband.’65 Claudia’s death before marriage led the dedicator to talk of the union of her body and tomb as a metaphor for marital sex: the tomb being a simile for a husband. In this instance, Claudia may not necessarily have been young, but may have been a mature woman who resisted marriage. Her unmarried and virginal status, so vehemently emphasized in this epitaph, reiterates how even unmarried women were defined in terms of their marital status. The concept of a life unfulfilled is attested in the male inscriptions too. A seventh-century tombstone records three young boys aged 12, 10 and 8, who are buried together. The inscription tells us that they died on the same day, recording that the tombstone was laid to document the tragedy of unfulfilled lives.66 In another inscription, Stephanos’ death from disease was described as occurring during ‘the prime of his life’.67 In literary sources, authors usually label



W ritten in St o ne

211

youths or recently matured men with the epithet that they are ‘in the prime of life’.68 The themes of tragedy and unfulfilled life are common topoi in the verses of male and female epitaphs. In the epigraphic evidence, the emphasis on virginity is less evident for men than for women, but it is nevertheless an attribute occasionally commented upon. Jordanes is described as a virgin, conveying the importance of the first sexual union as a life stage marker for both men and women.69 Yet in the Bible, the word ‘virgin’ is most commonly used to refer to women alone. Alberici has noted that in Latin texts, virginity was most commonly associated with women, above men, and this seems to be the case in Byzantium too.70 The emphasis on female virginity reiterates the Byzantine perception that women were defined by their marital and maternal statuses. The male tombstones suggest that marriage was important as a Life Course marker for men too. A sixth-century inscription records that Theodoros died ‘unmarried’.71 It has already been noted that relationships between the deceased and commemorator are recorded less frequently in Byzantine epitaphs than in Roman epitaphs.72 Nevertheless, Byzantine inscriptions do record Joannes, who died aged 28 was ‘son of Alanios and Salome’; Abraamios, who died aged 52 was ‘son of the vicarious Joannes’; whereas Estotzas, who died aged 50 was ‘husband of Dodo’.73 It has been found that for women, the Life Course marker of marriage was intertwined with the achievement of maternal status. Yet, for men, the attainment of fatherhood does not feature so predominantly in the epitaphs. An inscription honouring Anastasios boasts that he: ‘lived for eightyfive years and saw the sons of his sons’.74 Here, the mention of grandchildren is used to emphasize a man’s longevity, as opposed to complimenting his virtues, as we find in female epitaphs.75 Marriage is significant on male epitaphs, in isolation from parenthood. Men re-emerge on the epigraphic record during old age.76 Old age held value in Byzantium and age numerals in our inscriptions might have been included to highlight the deceased’s longevity.77 A tombstone from Arabia records that Themos lived to the age of 98.78 Alberici writes that, in hagiography: ‘The use of numerical data was added in order to indicate longevity … This was a rhetorical technique but the length in years also adds weight to the idea of authentic longevity’.79 Longevity itself was an unusual and celebrated life stage in Byzantium; inaccurate numerical ages may have been recorded on epitaphs in order to draw attention to the exceptional length of life. There is a marked contrast between frequencies of elderly female and male commemorations. The above mentioned epitaph of 98-year-old Anastasios records him as an elder (presbuteros), suggesting that he held specific social status within his community.80 Men are recorded with other titles too, including old man (geron), but there is not a comparable title for women. The limited appearance of females in the epigraphic record may be accounted for by women’s inability (normally) to take on roles of high public visibility, which may have reduced their influence and the demand for their commemoration. In

212

Families in the R oman and L ate A ntiq u e R oman Wo rld

addition, we have seen that commemorated women were valued in the roles of wife and mother, which may not have been considered to be as relevant when they were elderly.

Tombstones and the Byzantine Family Looking at individual members of the family, the sample of data used here shows that the Byzantines felt it was important to record the age of deceased infants with greater accuracy than deceased adults. Women are visible in the epigraphic record up to the life stage of marriage and reproduction but suddenly disappear in their mid twenties suggesting that their perceived value decreased with age and the fulfilment of familial roles. On the rare occasions that women are commemorated after achieving motherhood, their epitaphs celebrate their maternal virtues. For instance, in one fifth- or sixth-century tombstone, Eutychia is described as a ‘mother of good repute with her children’.81 Publicly visible men are commemorated most often, which is most evident from the fifth century, when occupations of all echelons begin to appear. Unlike women, men continue to be commemorated into old age. This suggests that as professionals, and not as family members, men were valued into old age. The only instance of the male elderly being commemorated in connection with their family role is when they are honoured to live long enough see the birth of their grandchildren.82 This may relate something of the rarity of grandparents in Byzantium although it does not convey the extent to which surviving grandparents were incorporated into family life. Hagiographies convey the importance of collective familial burials. In the vita of Theodora of Thessalonike, the mother bids her daughter, Theopiste, to ignore normative family burial customs and she requests, in line with her monastic vows, for her daughter to be buried separately.83 In Anastastios’ Spiritually Beneficial Tales, twins who are buried together eject an unrelated body from their grave.84 Ivison wrote: ‘Byzantine burial practices must have served to reaffirm the structure of living society and so may suggest that the Late Byzantine society saw itself, and to some extent in fact was, highly stratified and hierarchical, strongly emphasizing family and corporate membership’.85 The examples in hagiographies reinforce the perceived importance attached to familial burials. The epigraphic record demonstrates that as tombstone inscriptions reduced in popularity, the proportion of collective tombstones reduced in number too (Figure 11.3). Simultaneous to the reduction in tombstones, commemorations of women reduced in number, both quantitatively and proportionally. This may reflect that tombstones were no longer perceived as an important means to commemorate the family. In the fifth century inscriptions began to include professional statuses ranging from a servant, through to a tailor, to an eparch (official). This suggests that tombstones themselves lost prominence and



213

W ritten in St o ne

35%

30%

25%

20%

15%

10%

5%

0% 1st century

2nd century

3rd century

4th century

5th century

6th century

7th century

8th century

Figure 11.3  Percentage of collective inscriptions, first to eighth century

their function changed into a rare and exceptional means of commemorating individuals of particularly high status. As time progressed, tombstones were used less often for familial commemoration and more often for commemoration of prominent individuals: the mostly male elite.

Notes 1 2 3 4

5

6

For Roman and Greek studies, see: Oliver, 2000; Revell, 2005; Saller and Shaw, 1984. For Byzantine studies, see: Hoskins Walbank and Walbank, 2006, 267–288 and Talbot, 2009, pp. 283–308. SEG XXX, n. 1748, 495: ‘άγάμου’. Latin, Syriac, Coptic and Armenian language tombstones were produced at various regional and temporal points within the Byzantine Empire but are not used here. The Greek language was used as a ‘contact’ language by people beyond the boundaries of the Byzantine Empire. Therefore, a small minority of the inscriptions studied here will have been recovered in territories on the external parameters of the Empire’s borders (which were in a perpetual state of flux). Please see: Horrocks, 2008, pp. 777–784. Sironen, 1997, pp. 119–120: ‘Before the stone-cut Attic epitaphs come to a virtual end in the sixth/seventh century turmoil of Slavic invasions, we witness a striking change in the formulae during the last two or three centuries of their evolution. The most common formula is: (1) κοιμητήριον etc, i.e. a word for a grave; (2) the name of the deceased person(s) in the genitive case; and (3) the occupation (i.e. profession or trade) of one of the deceased persons in the genitive case. Naturally also more traditional phrases such as ἐνθάδε κεῖται, etc., persist, also in Christian inscriptions; and curses or sanctions against violators of graves become more frequent and vehement, especially in the outlying countryside. The ownership of the tombstones becomes more important, as is witnessed in relatively few cases, and the mention of the age of the deceased continues to be relatively rare’. Galvao Sobrinho, 1995, 453–458.

214

Families in the R oman and L ate A ntiq u e R oman Wo rld

For example, Ἐτελιὀθη’ meaning ‘finished’ (SEG XIII, n. 469, 114), is in the third person singular, which could refer to either the tomb or the person. 8 Hoskins Walbank and Wallbank, 2006, 280; Nove., XLVII. 9 SEG XXXI, n. 1435, 373: διατρίψας ἐν τῷδε τῷ βίῳ ¦¦ Πέντα και δύο ἐ’τη και εἰς τοὺς ¦ ἀναφραστοὺς Βίου μετέ ¦ -Στη{τη}μη(νι) Δύστρου θ’ ίνδ(ικτιῶνος) ιε’ ¦ ἔτους φς 10 Abrahamse, 1985, 132. 11 Thomas et al., 2000, p. 434. 12 Mango, 2008, p. 147: ‘At Constantinople the latest datable epitaph of an ordinary person is of c.610. From then onwards, until the end of the Byzantine state and beyond, ordinary people ceased to be commemorated epigraphically (except occasionally in graffiti) and were buried in unmarked graves’. 13 Mrozek, 1973, 113–118. 14 Ibid. 15 Laiou and Morrison, 2007, p. 24. 16 V. Elia. Heli., 106: ‘…while on the other hand the body was preserved as were the bodies of the three holy children in the furnace…’ V. Davi. Syme. Geor., 240; Anas., 69. 17 V. Luke., 111: ‘He immediately noticed that the sacred tomb and its surroundings lacked the beauty and care, and he thought it deserved some moderate attention’. 18 Ivison, 1993, pp. 57 and 88; V. Nike., 17: ‘Having prepared him for burial we buried him, as is customary, in a grave of his own. For it is not the custom of Fathers, as in other monasteries, to bury all together in one sepulchre when they die, but reserving a suitable place for each one they make a separate grave there and cover the body with earth, in accordance with the saying, “You are dust, and to dust you shall return”. There, as I said, we also buried the remains of this blessed man. In order that the holy man’s memorial should not be obscured but appear clearly to everybody, the God of the universe brought about that a plant called cypress spontaneously grew upon the memorial, exactly above his precious chest.’ 19 Humbert, 1993, 454. 20 V. Phil., 101: ‘Giving her a considerable sum of money he received from the abbess a new sarcophagus, confiding to her ‘Ten days from now I shall depart from this life and go to the blissful and better world and I want my wretched body to be laid in this tomb, also this imitating the noble Abraham, for while he lived he too bought his tomb from Emos the Chettie for a sum of silver.’’ 21 Talbot, 1996b, pp. 49–69; Abrahamse, 1985, 39: ‘The liturgical remembrance of the dead was always a prime function of any monastic community, as the list of commemorations ordained in typika demonstrate, but the attachment of mausolea to women’s communities must have rendered their functions in the care and remembrance of the dead particularly important.’ 22 V. Laza. Gals., 362. 23 Fowden, 2001, p. 31. 24 Saller and Shaw, 1984, 138; Pers. Comm. – Clauss (20 June 2009) c. fifty-six thousand Roman Latin epitaphs include age at death out of a sample of a hundred and fifty thousand to a hundred and seventy thousand. This equates to 33%–38% of epitaphs. 25 Stathakopoulos, 2008, pp. 309–316. 26 Revell, 2005, 47: Table 1. 27 Pers. Com. Eric Ivison (6 March 2009): ‘Very few inscriptions are known or can be dated for the seventh- early ninth centuries; very few are gravestones. After this date (from early ninth onwards) all epitaphs on stone are restricted to elite individuals or the state and church and the inscriptions are not mass produced but special commissions, in the case of epitaphs being usually metrical poems concocted by Classicising poets – very much a product (and patrons of) the so-called Macedonian Renaissance.’ 28 Lefebvre, 1907, XXIX–XXXIV; XXXV–XXXVIII. 29 Handley, 2003, p. 64. 7



W ritten in St o ne

215

30 Hoskins-Walbank and Wallbank, 2006, 283. 31 SEG XIII, n. 469, 114: ‘Ἐνθάδε κατάκειται ὁ δοῠλ(ος) Τοῠ Χ(ριστο)ῠ Σἑργιος ὁ ἐν ἐνδ(οξοτά)τῃ μνήμῃ Γενάμενος, ἀπὸ ἐπαρχων καὶ Δοῠξ’, 32 Sironen, 1997, p. 175: ᾿ου δοῦλος τί- μειο(σ)᾿. 33 Sironen, 1997: barber, pp. 144, 276; bath attendant, p. 230; bishop, p. 156; blacksmith, p. 167; bowl seller, p. 281; builder, pp. 143, 159; butcher, p. 138; cloth seller, p. 205; deaconess, p. 235, 236; elder, p. 188; embroiderer, p. 280; glassworker, pp. 147, 180; manager of aqueducts, p. 153; midwife, p.  126; miller, p.  162; mosaic worker, p.  207; pastry cook, pp.  230, 248; physician, pp. 242, 250; priest, p. 285; proconsul democrats, p. 170; provision seller, p. 232; reader, pp. 142, 155, 203, 233, 241, 248, 251, 283, 317; servant, p. 175; shoemaker, pp. 145, 148; silk-merchant, p. 229; stonecutter, p. 129; stick maker, P. 234; sub-deacon, pp. 187, 263. 34 SEG XLI, n. 894, 295: ‘ἀναγνόσ-τες (anagnostes)’; SEG XLV, n. 1485, 397: ‘π[ι]νκέρν¦¦ης (pinkernes)’; SEG XXVIII, n. 1056, 300: ‘ἀγναφ-ἀριος (agnafarios)’. 35 Sironen, 1997: reader, pp. 142, 155, 203, 233, 241, 248, 251, 283, 317. 36 Handley, 2003, 35: ‘Part of the explanation is that many people were able to afford an epitaph because they had joined a burial club. These clubs were often set up for specific professional groups and when they acted in concert they were able to get cheaper rates for burial plots and inscriptions’. 37 For types of female occupations in antiquity, see: Cantarella, 1987. 38 Hoskins-Walbank and Wallbank, 2006, 276. 39 Sironen, 1997, p. 126. 40 Sironen, 1997, p. 260. I have adapted Sironen’s translation here: he translates μειζοτέρα to mean ‘indendent’, while Talbot, 1996a, p. 330 translates the word to mean ‘stewardess of an estate’. Here, I have simply used the word ‘manager’. Equally, I have translated νέας not to mean young, but virginal, as this seems more apt in the description of forty-five year old woman. 41 Laiou-Thomadakis, 1977, p. 271. 42 Ibid: ‘Although the sex structure of our population is determinable without any great manipulation of the data, the same may not be said about the age structure. Only very occasionally do the pratika give an approximate indication of age of a person, when for example, they describe someone as a geron, a word which may refer both to age and to the person’s position in the village, or when they specifically speak of very young children. In the vast majority of cases, no age is given’. 43 Alberici, 2008, p. 208: ‘Chronological age statements are common in a number of saints’ lives but when they are present they usually indicate that the saint (or one of the characters) was at a time of life when he or she was considered to be particularly young or particularly old’. 44 Laiou-Thomadakis, 1977, p. 244. See: Laiou and Morrison, 2007, p. 17; Bagnall and Frier, 1995, p. 34. 45 Hennessy, 2008, p.  28: ‘…both girls and boys under two years of age were less likely to be memorialized in death than boys and older children’. 46 Revell, 2005, 48. 47 Duncan-Jones, 1977, 333–353. 48 Hoskins-Walbank and Wallbank, 2006, 276. 49 Revell, 2005, 59: ‘…clearly there are periods in the Life Course when it was considered to be more important to be precise about age’. Scheidel, 1996, p.  60: ‘Younger people will be better aware of or forced to be more scrupulous about their age, whereas older people or their commemorators are more likely to have an imprecise recollection or may indulge in age exaggeration’. 50 Age ten: SEG XLII, n. 869, 249; SEG XLIII, n. 1127, 414. Age twenty: SEG XXXIV, n. 1468, 406; SEG XXVIII, n. 1057, 300. Age fifty: SEG XLV, n. 850, 215. 51 SEG XXXIV, n. 1469, 406; SEG XL, n. 861, 268; SEG XXXI, n. 886, 221 52 Talbot, 2009, p. 304. 53 SEG XXXVI, n. 1157, 348.

216

Families in the R oman and L ate A ntiq u e R oman Wo rld

54 SEG XXXVI, n. 1157, 348: Philosophia is attributed with the status of ‘wife’ (γνησὶα) but not mother, suggesting that her marriage was barren. Her own mother, who was buried with her, is described as ‘thrice fortunate’ (ἠ τρισεὑμοιπος), presumably referring to her having three children. But the dedicator does not infer that Philosophia died too young to have children, indeed, at twenty Philosophia was attributed with a ‘full span’ (ἔζησεν ἑξεβἰος) suggesting that Philisophia’s Life Course ran its length but that no children were produced. 55 Inst., XXIII. 56 Eclo., 72: ‘The marriage of Christians, man and woman, who have reached years of discretion, that is for a man at fifteen and for a woman at thirteen years of age, both being desirous and having obtained the consent of their parents, shall be contracted either by deed or by parol’. See Scheidel, 1996, p. 12. 57 V. Theo. Thes., 167: ‘And while still a child, she was engaged to a man from a prominent family on the island. The reason for her early betrothal was as follows. When the girl was seven years old, she was at the same time graceful and intelligent, and whatever lesson her adoptive mother decided to set for her, therein was revealed the girls cleverness and natural intelligence.’ 58 V. John. Hesy., 200: ‘As he grew in age, he developed and progressed in spirit until he was joined to a wife in the partnership of lawful wedlock…’ 59 Paul. Mone., 80: The wife is not incorporated into family decisions: ‘So I ate with the man and his wife and when the meal was over I said to the woman, “Go somewhere else for the time being; I have something to say to your husband in private”’. Husband does not want to allow wife to enter monastery because they have no children: 110: ‘When [the husband] heard this he replied: “It is improper for you to say such things father, asking me to let my wife (who is not yet twenty-two) become a nun and leave me to my fate.”’ 60 Revell, 2005, 51: ‘However, perhaps the pronounced drop at about the age of 30 indicates that this promise had been fulfilled – the woman would usually be a wife and mother, and the man would have embarked on his political career.’ 61 An example of a collective inscription which renders the members of the family indistinguishable from one another: SEG XXXVI, n. 1157, 348: ‘ὑ-πὲρ εὐκαρπίας καὶ σωτηρίας Κουβαι-τηνῶν (for the prosperity and salvation of the Kouvaitenes)’ 62 Patlagean, 1975, p. 2. 63 Female resistance to marriage in hagiographies is looked at in greater detail in my PhD thesis. 64 Alberici, 2008, p. 179. 65 IAph2007, n. 15.347: ‘Κλαυδίη οἰχου[ἐ]νων σε Δίκη κυ[δή]νατο τύμβῳ κουριδίωι καθ[α]ρὸν δὲ δἐμας [συμ]μεῖξεν ἁκοίτ[η]’ 66 SEG XLII, n. 869, 249: ‘Κωνσταντινου ζήσαντος ἐ’τη ιβ’, Μελλώσου ζήσαντος ἐ’τν ι’, κ(αι) Νικήτα ζήσαντος ἐ’τη η’. Τούτων μνήσθητι, Κ(ύρι)ε, ἐν τῇ Βασιλείᾳ σου. ἐτελειωθησαν μη(νι) Δεκεμβριῳ κζ’ (Konstantinos having lived 12 years Mellosos having lived 10 years and iketas having lived 8 years. May you remember these, Lord, in Your kingdom. They died in the month of December 27)’. 67 IAph2007, n. 14.16: ‘ἀκμἠν ἐς Βιότοιο’ 68 Leo., 92: ‘Bardas had been in the prime of life, with his chin just beginning to listen with a fiery bright beard, when, while at sport not many years before, he was wounded in the eyelid with a lance by his own cousin, a young man named Pleuses.’ Leo., 83: ‘…Romanos departed this world in the prime of life’. Leo., 135: ‘…is wallowing in the mire of pleasures and leading a dissipated and idle existence when he is bursting with strength and in the prime of life, and moreover is your majesty’s nephew, possessed of a brilliant ancestral lineage’. Alex., 359: ‘With him he had the elite of the army…both in their prime of life, ‘just growing their first beards’…’ 69 IAph2007, n. 8.270: ‘θενικἡ’. 70 Alberici, 2008, p. 170. 71 SEG XXX, n. 1748, 495: ‘άγάμ(ου)’. 72 Saller, 1987, 21–34; and Shaw, 1987, 30–46.



W ritten in St o ne

217

73 SEG XLV, n. 1485, 397: ‘[υἰ]ὸς ‘Αλα¦νί[ου] και Σαλό¦μες (Son of Alanios and of Salome)’; SEG XXXI, n. 1435, 373: ‘ υιὸς Ἰωάννου τοῠ βικαριου (son of the vicarious Joannes)’; SEG XLV, n. 850, 215: ‘τος, ἀνιρ Δόδου (husband of Dodo)’. 74 SEG XXXVI, n. 1329, 407. 75 SEG XXXVI, n. 1329, 407: ‘ζήσας ἔτη πε’ καὶ εἰδὼν [υἱ ]-ούς υἱων. ἔδωκεν [τὸ πν(εῦμ)α] τῷ θ(ε)ῷ και α [….] (having lived for 85 years and seen the sons of his sons (i.e. grandsons))’. 76 Laurence and Harlow, (forthcoming), p.  11: ‘This would suggest that old age and longevity was, in itself, remarkable and that an old person’s demographic rarity focussed attention on the symbolic value of their age at death.’ 77 Talbot, 1984, 273. 78 SEG XXXI, n. 1470, 383. 79 Alberici, 2008, p. 221. 80 SEG XXXVI, n. 1329, 407: πρεσβύτερος 81 IAph2007, n. 15.357: ‘ἔνθα κα- τἀκιτε Εὐτυχἰα ψεναμέ- νι θρέψα- σα κὲ εὐπρε- πἐς με- τἀ τῶν πε- διων αὐ- τῆς. Κὐριε μνἡσθιθι αὐτης Κ(ὑρι)ε’. 82 SEG XXXVI, n. 1329, 407. 83 V. Theo. Thes., 201: ‘On the one hand Theopiste, wanting to carry out her mother’s bidding, was anxious to have a new tomb constructed separately for her, but the priests and monks who were present said that it was not right for her to be separated from her fellow nuns after death, but that just as those women who served Christ with united purpose had dwelled together in the course of their monastic exploits, so also in the grave, as is customary for monks. And thus the majority opinion prevailed.’ 84 Anast. Sin., 40: ‘Now two excubitors from Constantinople, twin brothers, came and renounced the world at the Holy Mountain, under our holy father, Higoumen John. On the third day he came to offer incense for the elder – and found that the excubitors had ejected his remains from between them; so he was very sad. He took up [the elder’s remains] and again he set them between the twins’; and when he came back, he found that they had ejected [the corpse again.] This happened three times… “But as for us [two,] who were born together; who served an earthly monarch together as soldiers; who renounced the world together, were buried together and together are alive in Christ, why did you not hesitate before separating us and setting another between us?” When the brother knew and heard that, he had the answer [to his question] and he glorified God.’ 85 Ivison, 1993, p. 277.

Bibliography Abrahamse, D. (1984), ‘Rituals of death in the Middle Byzantine period’, GorThR, 25, 125–134. —(1985), ‘Women’s monasticism in the middle Byzantine period: problems and prospects’, BF, 9, 35–58. Alberici, L. A. (2008), Age and Ageing in Late Antiquity: a Life Course Approach, PhD Thesis: University of Birmingham. Anastasios the Sinaïte, The Tales of Anastasios the Sinaïte, (translation by Wortley, J.), (unpublished – with kind permission from John Wortley). Bagnall, R. S. and Frier, B. W. (1995), The Demography of Roman Egypt, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Cantarella, E. (1987), Pandora’s Daughters: The Role and Status of Women in Greek and Roman Antiquity, Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press. Connors, C. and Connors, R. (1994), The Life and Miracles of St Luke of Steiris, Brookline, MA: Hellenic College Press.

218

Families in the R oman and L ate A ntiq u e R oman Wo rld

Duncan-Jones, R. (1977), ‘Age-rounding, illiteracy and social differentiation in the Roman Empire’, Chiron, 7, 333–353. Fischer, E. A. (1998), ‘Life of Nikephoros, Patriarch of Constantinople’, in Talbot, A.-M. (ed.), Byzantine defenders of images: eight saints’ lives in English translation, Washington, DC: Dumbarton Oaks Research Library and Collection, pp. 25–142. Fowden, E. (2001), Byzantine Hours Works and Days in Byzantium, Athens: Ministry of Culture Directorate of Byzantine and PostByzantine Monuments. Freshfield, E. (1926), A Manual of Roman Law: The ‘Ecloga’, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Galvao Sobrinho, C. (1995), ‘Funerary Epigraphy and the Spread of Christianity in the West’, Athenaeum, 83, 453–458. Greenfield, R. P. H. (2000), An Eleventh Century Pillar Saint: The Life of Lazaros of Mt. Galesion, Washington, DC: Dumbarton Oaks Research Library and Collection. Handley, M. A. (2003), Death, Society and Culture: Inscriptions and Epitaphs in Gaul and Spain, AD 300–750, Oxford: Archaeopress. Hennessy, C. (2008), Images of Children in Byzantium, Farnham: Ashgate. Horrocks, G. (2008), ‘Language’, in Jeffreys, E., Haldon, J. and Cormack, R. (eds), The Oxford Handbook of Byzantine Studies, Oxford: Oxford University Press, pp. 777–784. Hoskins Walbank, M. E. and Walbank, M. B. (2006), ‘The grave of Maria, wife of Euplous’, Hesperia, 75, 267–288. Humbert, J.-B. (1993), ‘Le cimitière de Khirbet es-Samra et quelques données démographiques’, Liber Annuus, 43, 452–454. Ivison, E. (1993), Mortuary Practices in Byzantium, PhD Thesis: University of Birmingham. Laiou-Thomadakis, A. E. (1977), Peasant Society in the Late Byzantine Empire: a Social and Demographic Study, Princeton NJ: Princeton University Press. Laiou, A. E. and Morrison, C. (2007), The Byzantine Economy, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Laurence, R. and Harlow, M. (forthcoming), ‘Viewing the old: recording and respecting the elderly at Rome and in the Empire’. With kind permission of R. Laurence. Lefebvre, G. (1905). Inscriptiones Graecae Aegypti, 5 Vols, Chicago IL: Ares. Mango, C. (2008), ‘Epigraphy’, in Jeffreys, E., Haldon, J. and Cormack, R. (eds), The Oxford Handbook of Byzantine Studies, Oxford: Oxford University Press, pp. 144–149. McGrath, S. (2003), ‘Elias of Helioupolis: The life of an eighth century Syrian saint’, in Nesbitt, J. W. (ed.), Byzantine Authors: Literary Activities and Preoccupations, Leiden: Brill, pp. 85–107. Mrozek, S. (1973), ‘A propos de la répartition chronologique des inscriptions latines dans le Haut-Empire’, Epigraphica, 35, 113–118.



W ritten in St o ne

219

Oliver, G. J. (2000), The Epigraphy of Death: Studies in the History of Greece and Rome, Liverpool: Liverpool University Press. Patlagean, É. (1975), ‘Birth control in the Early Byzantine Empire’, in Foster, R. (ed.), Biology of Man in History: Selections from the Annales 1, Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, pp. 1–22. Price, R. M. (1991), Cyril of Scythopolis: The Lives of the Monks of Palestine, Kalamazoo, MI: Cistercian Studies. Revell, L. (2005), ‘The Roman life course: A view from the inscriptions’, EJA, 8, 43–63. Reynolds, J., Roueché, C. and Bodard, G. (eds) (2007), Inscriptions of Aphrodisias, Available online: http://insaph.kcl.ac.uk/iaph2007 (Accessed 20 September 2010). Rydén, L. (2002), The Life of St Philaretos the Merciful Written by His Grandson Niceties: a Critical Edition with Introduction, Translation, Notes, and Indices, Uppsala University Library: Uppsala. Saller, R. P. (1987), ‘Men’s age at marriage and its consequences in the Roman family’, Classical Philology, 82, 21–34. Saller, R. P. and Shaw, B. D. (1984), ‘Tombstones and Roman family relations: soldiers, civilians and slaves’, JRS, 74, 124–156. Scheidel, W. (ed.), (1996), Measuring, sex, age and death in the Roman Empire. Explorations in ancient demography, Portsmouth: Journal of Roman Archaeology. Shaw, B. D. (1987). ‘The age of Roman girls at marriage: some reconsiderations’, JRS, 77, 30–46. Sironen, E. (1997), The Late Roman and Early Byzantine Inscriptions of Athens and Attica, Helsinki: Hakapaino Oy. Stathakopoulos, D. (2008), ‘Population, demography, and disease’, in Jeffreys, E., Haldon, J. and Cormack, R. (eds), The Oxford Handbook of Byzantine Studies, Oxford: Oxford University Press, pp. 309–316. Talbot, A.-M. (1984), ‘Old age in Byzantium’, BZ, 77, 273. —(1996a), Holy Women of Byzantium, Washington, DC: Dumbarton Oaks Research Library and Collection. —(1996b), ‘Family cults in Byzantium: the case of St. Theodora of Thessalonike’, in Rosenqvist, J. O. (ed.), ΛEIMΩN: Studies Presented to Leenart Rydén on his Sixty-Fifth Birthday, Uppsala: Uppsala University Library, pp. 49–69. —(2005), The History of Leo the Deacon, Washington DC: Dumbarton Oaks Research Library and Collection. —(2009), ‘The death and commemoration of Byzantine children’, in Papaconstantinou, A. and Talbot, A.-M. (eds), Becoming Byzantine, Washington DC: Dumbarton Oaks Research Library and Collection, pp. 283–308. Thatcher, O. J. (1907), The Library of Original Sources, Vol. 3: The Roman World, Milwaukee: University Research Extension Co., pp. 100–166. Thomas, J. P.; Constantinides Hero, A. and Constable, G. (2000), Byzantine

220

Families in the R oman and L ate A ntiq u e R oman Wo rld

Monastic Foundation Documents: A Complete Translation of the Surviving Founders’ Typika and Testaments, Washington DC: Dumbarton Oaks Research Library and Collection. Van den Gheyn, I. (1899), ‘Acta graeca ss. Davidis, Symeonis, and Georgii Mitylenae in insula Lesbo’, Analecta Bollandiana, 19, 209–259. Wortley, J. (1996), The spiritually Beneficial Tales of Paul, Bishop of Monemvasia: and of Other Authors, Collegeville, MN: Cistercian Press.

12

Left-over Romans: The Life Course in the Late Antique West Chris Callow and Mary Harlow Research into the life course involves looking at, among other issues, socially and culturally defined age-related behaviour, and the timing and ordering of events in the life course often with an emphasis on particular moments of transition and normative trajectories.1 In the modern world, rapid social, political and economic changes have meant that even in the relatively well protected urban west life courses have become increasingly individualized. Traditional assumptions about normative life patterns (childhood, education, marriage/ partnership, parenthood, retirement) have become harder to sustain. In the 2005 edition of the journal Advances in Life Course Research several articles raised methodological issues surrounding life course research in contemporary contexts. Many of the approaches discussed there can be used to model the life course in the Late Antique and Early Medieval world; with the caveats that we are dealing with very different types of evidence, and that the evidence is often more fragmentary (and certainly more gender biased) than we might like. In examining the life course the very end of the Roman Empire in the west here, we are concerned primarily with the impact of socio-historical events that force individual life course trajectories to abandon traditional social timetables and create new pathways given the realities of the times in which they lived.2 In 2002 Mary Harlow and Ray Laurence examined age-related behaviour in the period c.70 BC–AD 200 in Growing Up and Growing Old in Ancient Rome: A Life Course Approach. In more recent work they have focused on inter-generational relationships as well as the intersections of the life course trajectories of groups of Roman individuals of differing ages in a shared social milieu. This research worked with an assumption of normative life ‘timetables’ as a framing device.3 Until recently these produced workable models but current research by Ray Laurence and Francesco Trifilò (Chapter 3, this volume) raises serious questions about accepted orthodoxy of age-related concepts. This paper considers a key region of the Roman world in later period, Gaul in the fifth century AD. We take the lives of three members of the Gallo-Roman aristocracy, Paulinus of Pella (born c.377, alive in c.460), Sidonius Apollinaris (c.430–c.485) and Sidonius’ son, Apollinaris, as case studies. Paulinus and Sidonius, although authors of different forms of literary work, tell us enough about themselves to plot their life courses; Apollinaris appears only in others’ writings.

222

Families in the R oman and L ate A ntiq u e R oman Wo rld

To help explain why the life course could change so much the context of our case studies needs to be understood. There are, of course, diverse opinions about these broader social and political transitions in the west and many have been (re)voiced in English-language works in recent years.4 The old dichotomies of ‘Roman’ and ‘Barbarian’ and of ‘Roman’ and ‘post-Roman’ do not really characterize the complex changes in this period but from a Gallic perspective Rome most certainly fell during that century. Here the GalloRoman elites (the left-over Romans of the title) had been accommodating, associating and identifying themselves with Visigothic and Burgundian created kingdoms in the fifth century for a while.5 At the same time, as we shall see, the full impact of the Christianization of the aristocracy combined with the increased political regionalization brought on by barbarian takeover, meant that bishops became key political figures in Gallic towns by the end of the fifth century.6 Indeed Paulinus’ and Sidonius’ writings are key witnesses to the growing power of Goths and Burgundians in the southern half of Gaul in the fifth century and of the need for the pre-existing elite to come to terms with them rather than leaders in Italy.7 Paulinus’ brief autobiographical text suggests turmoil but perhaps not terminal collapse. Yet, later, Sidonius hints that he saw the seizure of power in Italy by the commander Odoacer in 476 as a watershed. This date has often been identified as the date at which the Empire in the west fell and from a Gallic point of view it certainly did have a powerful political impact.8 After Odoacer’s success, the Gothic leader Euric took over part of Provence and Gothic and Burgundian leaders took a stronger hold on southern Gaul. A part of this discussion of ‘the end of Rome’ has moved away from military, political, economic and tenurial change to consider the history of women, and gender more broadly, but less so the life course. These shifts have followed general trends in historical scholarship. At the same time, there has been a move in recent decades towards considering the ending of the Roman state as a more complex process, one which took different forms in different regions and one which may have been slower than narratives of ‘fall’ have allowed for and less about ‘decline’ or ‘collapse’.9 In the recent past at least some scholars have, quite rightly, sought to use ‘transformation’ to nuance our view of this set of complex processes. On the scale of the individual, however, transformation is not a helpful term; no individual would have been able to experience the long-term transformations discerned by modern scholars.10 By examining the life course this article will better explain the experience for at least some individuals and thus ‘put [ … ] people back into their history’.11 A region, such as Gaul, provides an appropriate unit of analysis for understanding the male elite’s experiences of family and career.12



L eft- over R omans

223

Paulinus of Pella (b. 377) Paulinus of Pella wrote the Eucharisticon (Hymn of Thanksgiving), an autobiography of sorts, in 460 when he was about 83.13 Paulinus was born in Pella in Greek Macedonia but his aristocratic family – he was the grandson of the author Ausonius – came from Bordeaux, and he returned to southern Gaul before the age of two. His life was shaped by being part of the elite social network: his father was vicarius of Macedonia (377), proconsul in Africa (378)14 and consul in Bordeaux. We hear very little of his early childhood but he says his indulgent parents cut short his education over anxiety about his health and allowed him to spend two years – from age 18 to 20 – in the traditional pursuits of young men: hunting, riding and having affairs with slave women.15 In his words, he was readily following youthful desires (ad iuvenalia vota sequenda).16 Paulinus is quick to assure his (Christian) readers that he never committed adultery (i.e. seduced a free married woman) or forced himself on women. To contain his behaviour his parents arranged a marriage for him at the relatively early age of 20. His wife came from a family who had seen better times and the estates she had inherited were neglected. Paulinus seems to have spent the next few years working hard to make them profitable, engaging in physical labour himself, unlike most of his class who would have seen their role as directing the work of others.17 More in keeping with his status was his description of his residence, his expensive dinner plate, servants and horses.18 Paulinus presents himself as having a very close relationship with his parents; he describes their mutual pietas (a word that encompasses ideas of duty, loyalty and here affection and shared anxiety). His father died when Paulinus was in his early thirties but describes himself as being in the early season of his youth (prima iuventate); of his father he says, ‘we lived our lives joined together, performing our reciprocal duties with such affection (pietas) that our concord (concordia) exceeded that of friends of the same age’.19 Given that concordia is the term normally used in the Classical world to describe the ideal relationship between husband and wife, it appears Paulinus wanted to stress just how close he was to his father. By contrast, the conflicts in Paulinus’ life seem to be with his brother, over property and inheritance, and with his wife. He and his wife had at least three children. He claims his desire for the monastic life was thwarted by having to maintain a household of dependants – sons, mother, wife’s mother and wife – not to mention the slaves and other retainers we would expect.20 His relationship with his wife was strained (something perhaps not helped by having two mothers-in-law in the house). Paulinus’ world was still the world of the literate and literary Roman elite, but one which by now was feeling the inescapable effects of Gothic power. Paulinus appears to have had few political ambitions but could not escape being given the title of Count of the Private Largesse by a puppet emperor, Priscus Attalus, whom Gothic leaders had appointed in 412–16, thus probably when he was

224

Families in the R oman and L ate A ntiq u e R oman Wo rld

in his forties.21 This appears to be his only office but presumably he had spent enough of his life in the circles of the ruling elite to be in the running for such a post. The reign of Priscus was short lived as the Goths concluded an agreement with the ruling emperor Honorius which allowed them to remain in Gaul. Holding office brought him few advantages and could not prevent him and his mother being attacked by the departing Goths and their house in Bordeaux being burnt;22 on his return to his ancestral home at Bazas he had to deal with an uprising against the local elite by slaves supported by some ‘senseless’ youths ( furore insano iuvenum)23 and finally had to save the city and his family from the besieging Goths, seeking support from the king of the Alani in the process.24 The timeline is hard to establish here but at some point Paulinus is exasperated with his wife and refers to her as difficult and unyielding when it came to discussing their escape from the invading Goths. After his experiences as Count of the Private Largesse, Paulinus was eager to flee but she would not leave for Greece (where Paulinus had property)25 because she was afraid of sailing; Paulinus felt he could neither abandon her nor take the children away from her.26 His mother, mother-in-law and wife all died in quick succession – Paulinus complains that his wife denied him the consolation of a shared old age (a Classical literary topos at the death of a loved one) but in rather stark terms that had she lived she might have been more serviceable to him in old age.27 The provision of care in old age is presumably one of the reasons why men in this period chose to marry women younger than themselves. His sons, it seems, did not enact the same pietas of their father had shown towards his own parents. They both moved back to Bordeaux and despite Paulinus’ hopes they did not pursue his interests there – one became a priest, another allied himself with the Goths and both seem to have died early and violent deaths;28 he laments the young age of the former (iuvenis) at his death.29 His daughter married and moved away to her husband’s family.30 Paulinus seems to have spent his old age alone and in relative poverty. Does this short illustration give us insight into family and the life course? It certainly talks about family. It is also couched in the kinds of Classical terms as to make it suspect yet it surely does give a sense of Paulinus as a son and husband (rather than as a brother or a father) and offers quite a contradictory view of fatherhood and its aspirations. It offers no insight into how his wife or mother may have felt about events or about their ages. However, we do get a sense of a family at work, dealing with the trials of family life – wayward youth, finding marriage partners, dealing with a household, relations between husbands and wives, parents and children, tensions over inheritance – and having to cope with frequent death (not uncommon given the demography of the time). We can see that his life course was affected significantly by political events. He seems to have had a relatively traditional, male aristocratic life until his marriage which may have been earlier than normal. After that, it seems that Paulinus’ account of his life is shaped by his own concerns as an elderly man; he sees his twenties and thirties in terms of his family and not in terms of his career. It may be that it



L eft- over R omans

225

was only when his father died that he had a political role; in any case he sees his forties in terms of political struggle and this may be due to more than simply to his accounting for his time in the absence of family to talk about. We need to be mindful of how Christianity eventually impinges on Paulinus’ life. For example, his suggestion that he had been forced into being the Count of the Private Largesse is in keeping with his construction of himself as someone who wants to cut himself off from the turbulent secular world and who would always have preferred the seclusion of monastic life.31 This is perhaps not surprising given that he is not obviously politically successful and could have opted for a monastic life.32 Paulinus converted to Christianity in his late forties33 although he never took up a role within the Church, unlike many other members of the fifth-century elite of southern Gaul, including one of Paulinus’ sons (a priest), Sidonius and Apollinaris (both bishops).34 Paulinus ended up in Marseille living off the sale of produce from his estate and income from plots he rented out. Even in this venture he was not successful and he found himself back in Bordeaux attempting to maintain a household that kept him just within the bounds of respectability.35 All of the property and social capital accrued by his grandfather Ausonius had been lost.36 Paulinus’ life course illustrates the way social and political events have direct impact on the individual and his family. The choices he might have made about the direction of his life were initially constrained by the traditions of the old Roman elite; by the time he was in his thirties and new power brokers of the area, the Goths were beginning to influence the range of options and type of life style available. Loss of income through the loss of estates led to a more confined life style, one that certainly would not have won the approval of his grandfather.

Sidonius Apollinaris (c.430–c.485) Sidonius’ extensive correspondence gives a general sense of how the political, social and religious dynamics of the period impact on life course choices and trajectories but only allows for very broad contours of his own life course to be drawn.37 His letters reflect the mind-set of a man in his forties and, although the Romans did not really have a concept that equates to ‘middle age mentality’, Sidonius appears only too happy to present himself in this role. His comments on youthful behaviour reflect this. Sidonius also uses traditional Classical stereotypes to comment on the rashness and unreliability of the younger generation, especially of his own son. He too is conscious of how particular stages of life should be treated and assumes his audience shares his assumptions.38 Sidonius’ world was no less changeable than Paulinus’ of the previous half century.39 His experience demonstrates the tensions of living in a world of paradox: the influence of Rome itself on Gaul was waning fast but Sidonius was as closely associated with it as anyone might still be, through his own and his wife’s family to the old Roman aristocracy. As noted above, for Sidonius and

226

Families in the R oman and L ate A ntiq u e R oman Wo rld

his generation of aristocrats negotiation with and accommodation of various Germanic groups was essential for survival.40 As the state was faltering, it was the Church which was filling the political and cultural vacuum. His writing reflects his traditional education in the classics yet he was a third generation Christian.41 Gaius Sollius Modestus (?) Apollinaris Sidonius was born at Lyons in c.430 into a Christian family of very high standing. His grandfather and father both held the posts of Praetorian Prefect of Gaul while his mother was connected to the influential house of the Aviti.42 We know about only two events from his early adulthood. Looking back to when he was nineteen he refers to himself as ‘barely out of boyhood’ (adulescens atque nuper ex puero) when he attended the inauguration of the consul Astyrius at Arles. Due to his father’s post as Praetorian Prefect, Sidonius was given a place of honour by being allowed to stand beside the curule chair although he notes that his age meant he was not permitted to sit.43 Shortly after this, in his early twenties he married Papianilla, daughter of Avitus, a man who would become Emperor for a short time. The marriage produced four children: one son, Apollinaris, about whom we know a modest amount from Sidonius and other writers, and three daughters, about whom we know next to nothing.44 We see very little of an obvious career trajectory for Sidonius in the material that survives. On the other hand his ancestry, connections and status meant that he was clearly viewed as a man of influence from early on. Even with his fatherin-law as Emperor (455–456) he does not seem to have held any civic offices, for example,45 although his family connections must surely have meant he was well-informed about high-level politics. When we can next track Sidonius, however, he is in his late twenties (about 28); and delivering a panegyric to Avitus’ successor Majorian, at Lyon (458).46 It is unclear what Sidonius’ position is at this point but he seems to have pleaded for leniency on behalf of the city, suggesting that his status in the region and the confidence of his contemporaries made him the best placed individual to deliver the plea to the emperor.47 Sidonius does not appear to have held an official post until the age of 30 under the emperor Majorian (460).48 By the following year, aged about 31, however, he claims that he had the title comes49 although with Majorian’s death the following year Sidonius’ fortunes took a downturn. On the domestic front, it seems that Sidonius was probably a father by this stage. The dates and order of his children’s births are not known but the first letter in his collection to his (adult) son Apollinaris is in Book 3; if the early appearance of this letter within his work signifies its relatively early composition, then Apollinaris was presumably away from home and an adult by the early 470s and thus was born before 460.50 The rest of Sidonius’ thirties seem to have been spent in a period of otium, or at least this is the idea that he puts over in his letters. His works only allow us to make inferences about his movements51 but it is still clear from his letters that he was not without influence and status at this point; he certainly spent time at



L eft- over R omans

227

the court of Theodoric II. In a famous letter to his brother-in-law Agricola he describes Theodoric and his court in Roman terms.52 And, even for an author noted for his consciously conservative style and subject matter, it seems unreasonable to suggest that Sidonius thought otium was acceptable as a full time life choice. Instead it represented moments of structured time away from civic duties and other business, usually in the summer; Sidonius reprimanded both Eutropius and Syagrius for spending time on their estates when they should be holding office.53 Presumably, however, he would have been equally unhappy with the behaviour of Paulinus, who actually cultivated his wife’s estates.54 Finally in 467, at the age of 38, Sidonius was commissioned by the Auvernians to petition the new emperor, Anthemius, and travelled to Rome.55 There, through the patronage of two powerful senators, he got to address a panegyric to Anthemius. His reward was to be made Prefect of the City, a post he held from early 468 to some point in 469. Even in the mid fifth century this was still one of the top jobs among the senatorial aristocracy. It was a post that required some real ability in dealing with the functioning of a large city – particularly in securing the corn supply, controlling riots and so forth. Surprisingly we hear little of his year or so as Prefect. Harries suggests that this is because events at faraway Rome would not have interested his Gallic correspondents56 but it may also have been that he was avoiding the trial of Arvandus (an old associate charged with treason) and did not want to remind his readers of this association. In theory this should have been the pinnacle of a senatorial civic career, after which the acquired status and distinction should have allowed him a period of otium among his friends and a superiority of standing. Instead within the year his life took a new direction – he was consecrated bishop of Clermont, never having held clerical office prior to this. At the age of 40 then, Sidonius’ life course entered a new phase. This was not a novel move in the period – rather it is a reflection of how social and political realities of the period were changing social timetables. However, he was unique in being an ex-Prefect of Rome who went on to take up a bishopric. An episcopal post could be a very powerful position among the local nobility, it could advance the social standing (not to mention spiritual capital) of Sidonius’ family; it enabled him to continue to be a desirable patron, and presumably kept him physically in the city. No doubt the fact that he had an illustrious family background, both on his own and his wife’s side, had already been seen as an ambassador for the Auvergnians as well as having held the post of Prefect of Rome, might all have led the people of Clermont into thinking they had a bishop with the authority to represent them and to negotiate between Rome and the Goths. Sidonius had shown he could be a man with a foot in both camps – he must have looked a very desirable candidate. In terms of the life course, this new posting extended his period of authority in theory until his death. For the following five years the Goths besieged Clermont on an annual basis until Rome finally ceded the Auvergne to them.57 Sidonius, as the leader of Clermont’s stubborn resistance, ended up in house arrest at Liviana near

228

Families in the R oman and L ate A ntiq u e R oman Wo rld

Carcassonne for over a year.58 Although released from Liviana he was not allowed to return to Clermont. His next movements are unclear but he did visit Bordeaux and, through a friend (Lampridius), petitioned the Gothic king Euric for reinstatement.59 Eventually he was successful and returned to his see dying there in his fifties. Sidonius’ life course fits a particular model for the period – aristocratic civil office holder turned bishop – but one would hesitate to call it normative. His writings suggest that that there was never any question but that he attempt to follow his father and grandfather into a civic career. His letters to friends suggest that he held public service dear and thought it an essential marker of adult male behaviour. He rejoiced in the honour of his brother-in-law being granted the patriciate and saw traditional career progression as important.60 Marriage and becoming a parent are generally accepted as key stages in the life course yet we hear relatively little about Sidonius’ family life in his correspondence. It must have been his choice never to record much about his immediate family because we know he edited his own letter collection.61 We do not know when or in what order his children were born. Although we know his son Apollinaris married, Sidonius gives us no information about the planning of the marriage, for instance. Sidonius hardly refers to his daughters at all although, in contrast to a near-contemporary (Ruricius of Limoges), he does at least mention daughters in his letters.62 Sidonius’ son Apollinaris causes him great anxiety. One letter contains a vignette about Sidonius and Apollinaris seated together, reading Terrence and Menander and, ‘… praising and jesting together … he was charmed with the reading and I with him’.63 But elsewhere Sidonius complains that his son, who shows great interest in other fields, is utterly listless in this one, being very little attracted to reading, either compulsory or voluntary.64

Apollinaris fils (born before 460–d c.515) In assessing the life course of the younger Apollinaris, whose own writings do not survive, we have to create a more speculative narrative. Apollinaris, like his father, was also heavily involved in southern Gallic politics but he had been raised by his father to belong to a generation of aristocrats whose time was past. He associated himself with Victorius, the comes of Clermont, an individual, who while being known for church building and other good works at Clermont, in the end had to flee to Rome for fear of assassination due to his excessive womanizing.65 Victorius continued his womanizing at Rome and as a result was stoned to death. Apollinaris avoided this fate but was imprisoned and then exiled to Milan before finally escaping back to Gaul.66 He continued to get into trouble and to receive advice from his close family. In the first few years of the sixth century, Apollinaris seems to show some interest in propagating interest in his father’s literary legacy but he also appears to have been an unreliable



L eft- over R omans

229

correspondent, perhaps partly because he was often on the move.67 In 507 he fought alongside fellow Auvergnians against Clovis and was defeated. A series of letters from his cousin Avitus of Vienne give thanks for his reacceptance into the Visigothic court, (in 507) and advice on how to handle court politics. Avitus is also concerned for the safety of Apollinaris’ son, perhaps his only son (Arcadius).68 Apollinaris’ success more obviously depended on association with the ruling power in Gaul, rather than solely association with aristocratic peers of Gallo-Roman heritage. That said, just as his father had done, in his forties or fifties he turned to the Church to provide an alternative career. This move was not without controversy although for this we rely on the gossipy account of Clermont’s politics by Gregory of Tours (539–94). Gregory tells us that it was Apollinaris’ wife and sister that obtained the bishopric of Clermont for him. They first went to the recently elected incumbent and telling him he was too old for the job and then sent Apollinaris to petition King Theuderic. Gregory says that, ‘He took plenty of gifts with him and was given the bishopric. When he had been bishop for only 4 months he died.69 In Gregory’s narrative this is entirely fitting: God ensures that bad people tend to die quickly and/or horribly and it fits a pattern whereby Gregory is hostile to this branch of Sidonius’ descendants.70 Thus we might not place too much emphasis on the precise details of the account but clearly Apollinaris became bishop and his immediate family struggled to maintain a role in the politics of the Auvergne. It is hard to be certain about such things, but Apollinaris’ apparently sudden death may not have been so unexpected as he must have been at least 50 when appointed and his family’s political weakness might in part have been due to his lack of sons.

‘Destandardized’ Life Courses? In the 2005 edition of Advances in Life Course Research, scholars argue that in the late twentieth and early twenty-first centuries the overall structure of the life course has changed in profound ways, becoming ‘destandarized’, ‘de-institutionalized’ and increasingly ‘individualized’. This may also be a way of approaching the life course in the fifth century AD, a time when old traditions and loyalties were being questioned, while at the same time – especially in the lives of Paulinus and Sidonius’ with their aristocratic backgrounds – these traditions were still fundamental to self-representation. In previous work there has been an implicit understanding that the Roman life course for both males and females (among the elite at least) was structured in an ordered way to the extent that we could talk about ‘normative’ patterns. These patterns, while different for men and women, were shaped by a social understanding of the order and timing of social roles in the life span. This ‘normative’ life course is framed by a variety of factors: age systems, cultural understandings of biology and the body, the classical cursus honorum and age at first marriage. The ‘age systems’ that existed in antiquity defined particular

230

Families in the R oman and L ate A ntiq u e R oman Wo rld

stages of life, associating certain age groups and types of behaviour. Age systems did not reflect social reality but they had been a way of structuring society since at least the sixth century BC.71 At least some members of the elite of Late Antiquity continued to think in terms of schema like this: in seventh-century Visigothic Spain, Isidore of Seville gave an extended, if inconsistent, résumé of age systems in his Etymologies. He gives six age stages, with explanations: • up to 7, infantia ‘[a] human being of the first age is called an infant (infans) because it does not yet know how to speak’; • 7–14, puerita (childhood, a pure age in which the child is not yet suited for procreation); ‘a boy (puer) is so called from purity (puritas), because he is pure and still remains, without the hint of a beard, the bloom of the cheeks’; • 14–28, adolescentia (adolescence, mature enough for procreation); • 28–49: iuventis (youth, ‘the strongest of all ages’); ‘a youth (iuvenis) is so called because he begins to be able to help (iuvare)’; • 49–70, senior (elder person, age of maturity, gravitas, ‘which is the decline from youth into old age’); • 70 plus – senectus, old age, with no precise time limit and it merges into senium, the last part of old age.72 For Roman lives in an earlier period the traditional cursus honorum which set age limits around which adult males could progress along a career trajectory embodied implicit assumptions about age-related behaviour and the ability to hold (or not hold) power and responsibility. The age systems both reflected and reinforced assumptions about male characteristics at particular stages of the career ladder. Both these parameters have problems: age systems do not bear directly on social reality. They are at best models which we can use to ascertain something of the mindset of the Roman elite towards age and age-related behaviour – and they are, overtly gendered as Isidore of Seville makes explicit. They are often constrained by particular agendas such as the symbolic meaning of the number seven or astrological/cosmological underpinnings.73 Using the cursus honorum alongside the age systems creates norms for a very small section of the male population. The position is further complicated by the fact that the group we know most about are precisely this male elite: those who produced the literature are also those who in the main have direct personal experience of the cursus honorum (for themselves or close members of their families and friends). As a result it is their view of the life course and their personal trajectories and transitions which dominate; the nature of the literary evidence colludes in the production of an idea of a normative life course. By the fourth century AD and arguably earlier, however, the conventional, classical cursus honorum had ceased to exist in the west and by the time of Sidonius and had been transformed; in Late Antiquity a cursus honorum still existed but with more pathways, suitable for the new social groups who were dominating



L eft- over R omans

231

society. These have been categorized by Michele Salsman as: senatorial, imperial bureaucratic, military and religious.74 In all of these pathways age was much less of a factor than it had once been for men of the Roman elite in earlier times, and for the civic pathway the roles had often become symbolic rather than politically meaningful.75 However, it is clear from the writings examined here, that whether desirable or successful (in the case of Paulinus) or a matter of right and duty (Sidonius) service to the state – now often in the form of the local leaders – still formed part of the life course trajectories of the elite. In order to maintain their positions in a very complex and mixed social world, both our subjects balanced old ideas of Roman duty with the Realpolitik of their times. This discussion has dealt with three different elite male individuals whose life courses we can only access through different forms of evidence, a fact which shapes in part the way their experiences of career and family appear to us. Paulinus’ account is idiosyncratic and muddled; Sidonius’ letters deceptively conventional but antiquarian; Apollinaris we only see through others’ eyes. Yet we can still see how the wider, unsettled political situation affected their life courses. And, one might argue, it was the political circumstances, the slow fall of Rome in Gaul, which caused the evidence we have for their life courses.76 As the earliest of the three, Paulinus seems to have been unable to switch to the kind of ‘safe’ ecclesiastical position which Sidonius and Apollinaris held. Despite their eventual role as bishops of Clermont in their middle age, father and son followed very different paths. Sidonius could still look to Roman ideas and career moves (even if he did not hold many official posts), an option that was not available to the next generation. The intersection of each of their lives with the politics of Gaul in the fifth century meant their choices were constrained. Opting for a career in the Church extended the period a man could have authority and influence. Becoming a bishop after a secular career not particularly novel but in terms of the life course it meant longevity. The traditional language of the otium of those past office holding age used of Romans of the Classical period was not applicable to bishops who did not ‘retire’. Harries argues that the taking up of Church posts was becoming a natural progression in Late Antique aristocratic careers – as the range of civic posts available diminished so the holding of bishoprics was a way of retaining power over the local community.77 Yet Sidonius was unique in being the only Gaul to have moved from holding the highest secular office to bishop, perhaps because his attitude to public service meant that he saw it as an extension of that aristocratic duty of public service.78 We should remember too that Sidonius, despite his fogeyishness, was not that old when he compiled his letter collection; at 40 in more settled (and earlier) times he could have expected more secular offices to come his way. Taking the religious post had serious implications for the rest of his life course and the activities he undertook. His son took a different route, although it is hard to say if he was acting out of concern for his own personal status or public duty – there is no evidence that Apollinaris desired to serve the wider community. However, his options were

232

Families in the R oman and L ate A ntiq u e R oman Wo rld

more limited and it could be argued that he ordered his life course to suit the society he was living in; it may be that he came to the bishopric when all this other options were exhausted, and offered the security which he had patently failed to achieve on his own merits. Finally, the lives of Sidonius and his son as particular life courses reflect the conditions of a particular time – they are neither normative nor standardized. Arguably they are not individualized either – the subjective nature of the evidence and its general paucity preclude any real conclusions in this area. They do, however, demonstrate that the model of a normative life course (with all its caveats) is ‘good to think with’ – even if only to be undermined by the historical and social circumstances of the lives individuals actually live.

Notes 1 Macmillan, 2005, 5. 2 For this argument in modern life course studies see Macmillan, 2005. 3 See Age and Ageing in the Roman Empire (2007); ‘De Amicitia: The role of age’ (2010c); ‘Betrothal and middle childhood’ (2010d). 4 Recent syntheses include Heather, 2005, and Ward-Perkins, 2005, both returning to a more traditional notion of ‘fall’, reacting strongly against the notion of the ‘transformation’ of Late Antiquity. Both are reviewed by O’Donnell, 2005. Halsall, 2007, provides a more nuanced account. For excellent overviews of different kinds for period post-400 see Wickham, 2005; Wickham, 2009; Innes, 2007; Smith, 2005. 5 Historians still argue over the nature of the initial ‘accommodation’ of barbarians within Gaul, as either landowners or tax collectors: Goffart, 2010, and Halsall, 2010a, in dialogue, responding to each other’s most recent monographs discussing the issue, Goffart, 2006, and Halsall, 2007. 6 Harries, 1994, pp. 222–238. For a broader account see James, 1982, 43–63. 7 See, for example, Heather, 1995, pp. 191–194. 8 Halsall, 2007, pp. 280–281. 9 Ando, 2008; James, 2008. 10 Halsall, 2004, 17–18 responding to Smith, 2000. 11 Halsall, 2007, p. 518 12 See, for example, Smith, 2000, Halsall, 2004. 13 For a discussion of the finer points of the text’s chronology see Coşkun, 2002. 14 Euch. 24–31. 15 Euch. 71–82. 16 Euch. 142. 17 Euch. 189–197. 18 Euch. 205–212. 19 Euch. 243–245. 20 Euch. 455–463. 21 Euch. 215. 22 Euch. 315–330. cf McLynn, 2008, 61, note 4. 23 Euch. 330–336. 24 Euch. 345ff. 25 Euch. 408–415. 26 Euch. 485–488. 27 Euch. 493–498.



L eft- over R omans

233

28 Euch. 500–515. 29 This label probably combines a combination of ideas about Paulinus’ son’s age and position within the life course. It can certainly be argued that it describes an unmarried adult male (puer) in much the same way as the term is used in later centuries (for which see Halsall, 2010b, esp. pp. 384–388). For an instance of Sidonius’ use of puer see below at p. 327. 30 Euch. 325–327. 31 See Matthews, 1975, p. 80 on lack of political involvement by Gallic elites in this period. 32 Innes, 2005, esp. 42, 50, 51, 60–61. 33 Euch. 474–478. 34 See, for example, the letters of Ruricius of Limoges. Mathisen, 1999, p. 31. 35 Euch. 516–563. 36 E.g. Innes, 2005, 50. 37 Macmillan, 2005. 38 E.g. Ep. 7.2.5 on Amantius: ‘now he began to pay attentions to his neighbours in frequent visits, and his greetings were constantly returned in the most affable way. His converse with individuals was regulated by a consideration of their years; he attached the older generation to him by marks of respect, his own generation by personal services. He was conspicuously devoted to chastity and sobriety; this in early manhood (iuventute) is as laudable as it is rare.’ 39 See, for example, Wickham, 2005, pp. 155–178 esp. pp. 160–161; Halsall, 2007, pp. 279–281, 434. 40 Innes, 2007, pp. 101–102; 114–115. 41 Carm. epigr. 9.313; philosophy Epp. 4.1.3; 4. 11.2; Van Dam, 1985, pp. 172–173. 42 Anderson, 1936, xxxii-xxxiii. 43 Ep. 8.6.5. Here Sidonius appears to use the word puer in a more precise, age-related (Roman) way than does other writers such as Paulinus of Pella, Ruricius of Limoges (e.g. Ep. 2.54) or writers in Merovingian Gaul. See note 29. 44 Son = Apollinaris to whom Ep. 3.13 is addressed (cf 5.9.4; 5. 11.3; 8.6.12; 9. 1.15). In 507 he fought alongside other Auvergnians against Clovis and was defeated. On intrigue surrounding his father’s old see of Clermont in 515, Greg. HF 3.2. X. 45 Carm. epigr. 25. He wrote a panegyric for Avitus’ consulship the following year and in return received the honour of a bronze statue in the Forum of Trajan Carm. epigr. 7; Carm. epigr. 8.7–10; Ep. 9.16.3 46 Carm. epigr. 5. 47 Again in Carm. epigr. 13. 48 Ep. 1.11.3. 49 In this year Sidonius travelled from Auvergne to Arles where the Emperor Majorian was staying after his failure against the Vandal leader Geiseric; Sidonius has Majorian calling him comes in a dinner party conversation. Ep. 1.11.13. 50 Ep. 3.13. Sidonius’ letters were not published in the order in which he wrote them and they show lots of signs of his having made a careful selection of those most appropriate to publish (and many are set pieces and not the ‘real’, mundane correspondence we might expect). The date of their publication is not certain but letters about his life before he was Bishop of Clermont (from c.470) may have been collated at about the time of his election to the bishopric. Anderson, 1936, lx-lxiv. 51 He seems to have lived partly at Lyons and partly at Avitacum and visited friends (e.g. Tonantius Ferreolus and Apollinaris (Ep. 2.9) perhaps court of Theodoric at Toulouse (Ep. 1.2). He spent time in Narbonne where Consentius and other friends lived (Carm. epigr. 22; Ep. 1.) During this time get murder of Theodoric, accession of Euric (466) and elevation of Anthemius to imperial throne (467). 52 Ep. 1.2. Harries, 1994, p. 128 argues that by his mid-20s Sidonius was a habitué of the Gothic court. Theodoric supported Avitus so that may have brought Gallo-Roman aristocrats into the ambit of the court more readily. 53 Ep. 1.6.1–4. 54 Ep. 1.6; 8.8.3. Other letters on office holding: 1.3, 4, 10, 11. 55 Ep. 1.5 and 9. On reasons why he went to Rome see Harries 1994, pp. 143–145; contra see Sivan,

234

Families in the R oman and L ate A ntiq u e R oman Wo rld

1989. On the relationship between Gallic and Italian nobility in this period see Wickham, 2005, pp. 160–161; on the aristcracy’s ability to survive the changes in the fifth century more generally Mathisen, 1993. 56 Harries, 1994, p. 151. 57 Ecdicius, Sidonius’ brother-in-law raised a force at his own expense Ep. 3.3.3–8; on the ceding of Auvergne: Ep.7.7 58 He was given some duties and complained bitterly (Ep. 9.3.3) one of these was a transcription of the life of Apollonius of tyre by Philostratus – but Sidonius freed before this sent (476). Age 46. 59 Ep. 8.9. 60 Ep. 5.16.4. 61 E.g. Shanzer and Wood, 2002, p. 62. 62 In the same letter to his wife – a rare letter between spouses among those of the fifth and early sixth century letter collections from Gaul – Sidonius refers to their daughter Roscia, ‘being nurtured in the indulgent arms of her grandmother and also her aunts – a rare advantage in the bringing up of grandchildren; at the same time she is treated with strictness, although it is a strictness that does not strain the tender age (non infirmatur aevum), but trains the mind’. Another daughter, Severiana, took up the religious life; a third, Alcima, lived in her brother’s household (Greg. HF 3.2, 12). Sidonius does mention Severiana (Ep. 2.12.2) but does not mention Alcima. Ruricius of Limoges had five sons but never mentions any daughters (Mathisen, 1999, pp. 25–26). This could be because he had no daughters but might also be due to a preference for discussing sons, either his preference or that of later editors. 63 Ep. 4.12.1–2. 64 Ep. 9.1.5. 65 Victorius gets good press from Sidonius (as he might given their relative positions in Clermont) Ep. 7.17.1. Gregory of Tours tells a different story first of Victorius’ church building but then of his fall ‘far too much given to irregular affairs with women’ and flight to Rome. There he lived the same loose life and was stoned to death (Greg. HF 2.20). 66 Greg. Glor. Mart. 44; Mathisen, 2003, pp. 86–88. 67 Communication was difficult because of political upheavals in the last decade of fifth century, e.g. Ruricius Ep. 2.41 also to Apollinaris. For Apollinaris’ unresponsiveness see Ruricius Ep. 2.26, 2.27; one letter to Avitus of Vienne crossed in the post, Avitus Ep. 52. On letter collections, Shanzer and Wood, 2002, pp. 62–63. 68 Avitus of Vienne Epp. 24, 36, 51, 52; Shanzer and Wood, 2002, pp. 337–349; cf Ruricius Ep. 2.41 69 Greg. HF 3.2. 70 He blames Apollinaris’ sister, wife and son for betraying Clermont in the 530s, Greg. HF 3.9, 3.12. In another work he says the sisters-in-law disturbed the bodies of saints in building a church at Clermont dedicated to St. Antolianus. Greg. Glor Mart. 64. 71 For good précis of age systems see Tim Parkin in Harlow and Laurence (eds) 2010b, pp. 97–101. 72 Isidore, Etym. 11.2. 1–9, 15. Harlow and Laurence, 2010a, 184. Isidore’s work is particularly interesting because for the first time in these systems a set of stages is set out for a female life course: puella (girl), ‘as if the term were “chick” (pulla)’; next, ‘puerpura are those who give birth at a youthful (puerilis) age’; then mulier (woman), virgo (virgin) and femina (woman), all of which are used to describe women who are able to give birth and are weaker and subject to men; finally anus (old woman). The female life course is associated with the culturally defined place of women in the Christian world, and the period of maturity undefined except by its relationship to procreation. Nevertheless, it gives some idea of the inherited thinking about the trajectory of a woman’s life: she remains a child in the power of her parents, until she makes the transition to adulthood on marriage. Isidore, Etym. 11.2.12–28. For the female life course in Late Antiquity see Alberici, 2008. That Isidore, writing in seventh century Spain, could write this should be taken as a sign that such ideas would have been known among the educated elite of fifth century southern Gaul although our writers pay little attention to women’s life courses. We might be less certain about the dispersal of such ideas in seventh century former Roman Gaul given the differing fates of these regions after the Roman state’s collapse.



L eft- over R omans

235

73 74 75 76

See Parkin, 2010, 99. Salzman, 2002 See Alberici, 2008, p. 103. A combination of their very high social standing and the fact that social and political stress continues to increase in the sixth century probably explains the absence of the kinds of anxieties about the deaths of people of different ages which show in the inscriptional and, especially, archaeological data. See Halsall, 1996; Handley 2003, pp. 65–88. 77 Harries, 1994, pp. 170–173. On ages at which individuals became bishops in late antiquity and the role of the church in creating an alternative career structure see Alberici, 2008, pp. 115–129; especially pp. 126–129 and Table 1 Appendix 2. 78 Harries, 1994, p. 179.

Bibliography Alberici, L. (2008), Age and Ageing in Late Antiquity, Unpublished PhD thesis, University of Birmingham. Anderson, W. B. (1936–1965), Sidonius Apollinaris: Poems and Letters I-II, London: Loeb. Ando, C. (2008), ‘Decline, fall and transformation’, Journal of Late Antiquity, 1, (1), 31–60. Coşkun, A. (2002), ‘Chronology in the Eucharisticos of Paulinus of Pellaeus: A Reassessment’, Mnemosyne, 55, (3), 329–344. Goffart, W. (2006), Barbarian Tides: The Migration Age and the Later Roman Empire, Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press. —(2010), ‘The technique of barbarian settlement in the fifth century: A personal, streamlined account with ten additional comments’, Journal of Late Antiquity, 3, (1), 65–98. Halsall, G. (1996), ‘Female status and power in early Merovingian central Austrasia: the burial evidence’, Early Medieval Europe, 5, (1), 1–24. —(2004), ‘Gender and the end of Empire’, Journal of Medieval and Early Modern Studies, 34, (1), 17–39. —(2007), Barbarian Migrations and the Roman West 376–568, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. —(2010a), ‘The technique of barbarian settlement in the fifth century. A reply to Walter Goffart’, Journal of Late Antiquity, 3, (1), 99–112. —(2010b), ‘Growing up in Merovingian Gaul’ in Halsall, G. (ed.) (2010), Cemeteries and Society in Merovingian Gaul: Selected Studies in History and Archaeology, 1992–2009, Leiden & Boston: Brill. Handley, M. A. (2003), Death, Society and Culture: Inscriptions and Epitaphs in Gaul and Spain, AD 300–750, British Archaeological Reports International Series 1135, Oxford: Archaeopress. Harlow, M. and Laurence, R. (eds) (2007), Age and Ageing in the Roman Empire, Portsmouth: Journal of Roman Archaeology. —(eds) (2010b), A Cultural History of Childhood and the Family Vol. 1: Antiquity, Oxford and New York: Berg.

236

Families in the R oman and L ate A ntiq u e R oman Wo rld

Harlow, M. and Laurence, R. (2010a), ‘World contexts’ in Harlow, M. and Laurence, R. (eds), A Cultural History of Childhood and the Family, Vol. 1: Antiquity, Oxford and New York: Berg, pp. 171–186. —(2010c) ‘De Amicitia: The role of age’, in Mustakallio, K. and Krötzl, C. (eds), De Amicitia. Friendship and Social Networks in Antiquity and the Middle Ages. Acta Insituti Romani Finlandiae, 36. Rome: Institutum Romanum Finlandiae, pp. 21–32. —(2010d), ‘Betrothal and mid-late childhood and the life course’, in L. Larsson Lovén and A. Strömberg (eds) Ancient Marriage in Myth and Reality. Newcastle: Cambridge Scholars Press. pp. 56–77. Harries, J. (1994), Sidonius Apollinaris and the Fall of Rome, Oxford: Clarendon Press. Heather, P. (2005), The Fall of the Roman Empire , London: Macmillan. Innes, M. (2005), ‘Land, freedom and the making of the medieval west’, Transactions of the Royal Historical Society, 16, 39–74. —(2007), Introduction to Early Medieval Western Europe, 300–900. The Sword, the Plough and the Book, Oxford and New York: Routledge. James, E. (2008), ‘The rise and function of the concept ‘Late Antiquity’’, Journal of Late Antiquity, 1, (1), 20–30. Krusch, B. (ed.) (1887), Fausti aliorumque epistulae ad Ruricium aliosque. Monumenta Germaniae Historica, Auctores Antiquissimi 8, Berlin. MacMillan, R. (2005), ‘The structure of the life course: classic issues and current controversies’, Advances in Life Course Research, 9, 3–24. Mathisen, R. (1993), Roman Aristocrats in Barbarian Gaul: Strategies for Survival in an Age of Transition, Austin, Texas: University of Texas Press. —(1999), Ruricius of Limoges and Friends. A Collection of Letters from Visigothic Gaul, Liverpool: Liverpool University Press. —(2003), People, Personal Expression and Social Relations in Late Antiquity, Vol. 1, Michigan: Ann Arbor. Matthews, J. (1975), Western Aristocracies and the Imperial Court, AD 365–425, Oxford: Clarendon Press. McLynn, N. (2008), ‘Poetic creativity and political crisis in early fifth-century Gaul’, Journal of Late Antiquity, 2, (1), 60–74. O’Donnell, J. (2005), Review of Heather, P. (2005), The Fall of the Roman Empire: A New History, London: Macmillan. Parkin, T. (2010) ‘The Life Cycle’ in Harlow, M. and Laurence, R. (eds) (2010b), A Cultural History of Childhood and the Family Vol. 1: Antiquity, Oxford and New York: Berg, pp. 97–114. Salzman, M. R. (2002), The Making of Christian Aristocracy: Social and Religious Change in the Western Roman Empire, Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Shanzer, D. and Wood, I. (2002), Avitus of Vienne. Selected Letters and Prose. Translation, Liverpool: Liverpool University Press. Sivan, H. (1989), ‘Sidonius Apollinaris, Theodoric II and Gothic-Roman politics from Avitus to Anthemius’, Hermes, 117, 85–94



L eft- over R omans

237

Smith, J. M. H. (2000), ‘Did women have a transformation of the Roman world?’, Gender and History, 12, (3), 552–571. Thorpe, L. (1974), Gregory of Tours. The History of the Franks, Translation, London: Penguin. Van Dam, R. (1985), Leadership and Community in Late Antique Gaul, Berkeley, Los Angeles and London: University of California Press. Ward-Perkins, B. (2005), The Fall of Rome and the End of Civilization, Oxford: Oxford University Press. Wickham, C. J. (2005), Framing the Early Middle Ages: Europe and the Mediterranean 400–800, Oxford: Oxford University Press. Wickham, C. (2009), The Inheritance of Rome. A History of Europe from 400 to 1000, Oxford: Allen Lane. Wood, I. (2000), ‘Family and friendship in the west’, Cambridge Ancient History, (2nd edn) 14, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.

13

Fatherhood in Late Antique Gaul Emma Southon The concept of men as fathers, and the associated cultural expectations of fatherly emotions and behaviour are areas which have suffered from a serious lack of research for all historical periods. In terms of the Roman family, men have been studied almost exclusively as the fathers of sons, with an enormous emphasis on the notion of patria potestas and associated intergenerational conflict.1 Only Judith P.  Hallett’s 1984 monograph Fathers and Daughters in Roman Society has broken this pattern, but even this is heavily focused on the place of women in Roman elite society, rather than on the masculine role.2 In more recent works which aim to examine the family in Late Antiquity and the impact of Christian thought tend to focus far more heavily on the female roles of mother and wife than on the male experience.3 Partly, this imbalance appears to be driven by potency of the image of the paterfamilias as an all-powerful, domineering authoritarian which, although it has been seriously considered and given nuance by Richard Saller remains a powerful and iconic figure in the broader consideration of the Roman and post-Roman family.4 Equally, the surviving source materials give rise to a study of the family which is far more heavily concentrated on women, with their traditional focus on the ‘public’ male and the ‘private’ female dichotomy. It is not easy within these strictures to begin to consider fathers as ordinary men, working within vast structures of cultural expectation and social pressures which shape their behaviours and responses, both public and private. This paper attempts to examine one of these discourses of fatherhood and ‘normal’ fatherly behaviour that emerged in the cultural landscape of Late Antique Romano-Gaul through a selection of related sources: a discourse of paternal love and affection for their children. This article is not a response to the now thoroughly de-bunked Ariès thesis that pre-modern parents had no conception of childhood and as a consequence, did not love their children in a manner recognizable to a modern audience.5 It does not aim to argue that ‘men loved their children’, as if this were an idea that required corroboration, but begins from that assumption. Nor does it claim that all classical Roman men were insensitive to or unusually unkind to their children or that they, in their lived experiences, viewed children only as male heirs or disappointing females. Since the 1980s there have been a multitude of studies which have re-examined the classical evidence to thoroughly undermine such an interpretation.6 This article examines the ways in which educated and aristocratic Gallo-Roman



Fatherho o d in L ate A ntiq u e G au l

239

men, many of whom were acquainted with one another, of the fourth to the sixth centuries expressed and discussed that emotion among themselves; how they defined fatherhood and how they used it in dialogue with one another in a manner that was mutually comprehensible and how this differed from earlier discourses of fatherhood. This article specifically looks at three aspects of this emergent discourse of benevolent fatherhood: interactions between father and young children; interactions between father and adult child and finally, the expression of a desire to procreate for emotional fulfilment.

Father and Young Child The image of a father together with his infant child is not a common one in Roman literature. The prevalence of Cicero’s self-described relationship with his daughter in modern scholarship on the family is testament to the lack of other portraits of such a relationship in the surviving Roman canon.7 The late antique letter writers, however, are replete with images of father and child involved in affectionate, playful and tender interactions with their children which, given how small this sample of writers is in comparison to the whole of pre-Christian Latin literature, is remarkable and indicative of an emerging new attitude to the expression of fatherhood in literature. It seems likely that this emergent discourse is related closely to the parallel and uniquely Christian motif of kindly, loving physical punishment of children. This discourse has already been described and traced through Christian Latin literature by Richard Saller, Anne Marie la Bonnardière and Suzanne Poque and then analysed in more detail by Theodore de Bruyn and its popularity has been primarily attributed to Augustine.8 In this incipient interpretation, paternal sternness and punishment is reframed as an expression of paternal love and its influence is seen in the late antique Christian Gallo-Roman texts. Indications of this discourse can be seen in Salvian’s theological treatise On the Governance of God (c.AD 440) which attempted to explain the military successes of the barbarous Vandals, Goths and Franks to an astonished and frightened lay audience.9 He argues that the Romans had committed a great many sins, while the ‘barbarians’ are described as being paragons of sexual virtue.10 As a result of their sins, he writes, God must punish his Roman children to show them their sins, forcing them to repent and thus be able to return to God’s indulgence: ‘Good things are from time to time given to us, unworthy as we are, because the good Lord is, as it were, an indulgent father … Therefore he now punishes His people with adversity as discipline and then He favours them with peace as an indulgence.’11 This rhetorical trick is an explicit reference to Augustine and his concept of the loving, punishing father as seen in his sermons.12 This same concept is used in a more practical, but still theologically related, sense by Ruricius (c.AD 440–510) as he describes in a letter to his bishop Faustus in his own role as Faustus’ student of Christian learning, his metaphorical son.

240

Families in the R oman and L ate A ntiq u e R oman Wo rld

He writes that he would welcome any punishment for Faustus for his sins for ‘it is better for me, indeed, to weep because of the father than, condemned by the father, to be disinherited’, and goes on to state that a pious father ‘disrupts so that [he] may correct’ through blows and whipping.13 He frames his relationship with his bishop as that of a father and son within this model of a loving father who punishes his children to demonstrate his love in order to not be forced to employ the ultimate punishment of disinheritance. This too is the model which is implied by Sidonius in his statement that it is better to think of a child’s future prosperity than of their present comfort. Finally, Caesarius of Arles openly advocates whipping and beating one’s sons in his sermons – many of which are clear abridgments of Augustinian writing – in order to ensure they live ‘chastely, justly and soberly’.14 It is notable that this expression of paternal love is only employed when describing idealized father–son relations and there is no corresponding discourse which relates to father–daughter relationships. Virtually all references to father–daughter interactions speak of kindness, love, guidance and care over physical correction.15 This developing metaphor of the loving but correcting paternal God are part of an evolving Christian tradition which gives new meaning to old models of fatherhood, including that of the austere paterfamilias.16 For example, Paulinus of Pella and Sidonius Apollinaris (c.AD 430–489) both attempt to create images of their own lives that emulate classical ideals, but these images are changed by their Christian beliefs. Thus, Paulinus’ description of his own childhood is one of ‘freedom, play and blithesome youth’ but his relationship with his father is described as strongly focused on the education and discipline supplied by his father, rather than on his father’s involvement in the play.17 He describes his father ‘exercising due control’ on his young mind and behaviour through his education, and explicitly relates this upbringing to an idealized classical past lamenting the ‘corruption’ of his age.18 However, he characterizes this discipline as being an expression of both parents’ love for him, and is open in his declaration that they aimed to provide him with salvation through asceticism as the prime manifestation of this love. Moreover, as he grows up and suffers illness, his relationship with his father becomes extremely affectionate as is particularly shown by his father’s reaction to Paulinus’ illness and his own reaction to his father’s death.19 Sidonius too places his persona as a father within this re-imagined Classical tradition as he berates his friend Simplicus for allowing his sons to be ‘too secure in [his] affections’ causing them to be difficult and unruly students.20 In his descriptions of the education of children he too invokes the Classical ideal of unbending strictness with repeated references to students having their education beaten into them, including nostalgic shared memories of his own childhood.21 He maintains a clear ideal of exemplary fatherhood as a man who would rather help his child than to please, describing this man as ‘the stern father, who thinks more of his children’s real advantage than of their present comfort’.22 It is within this frame of austerity that Sidonius places himself as a father in his described



Fatherho o d in L ate A ntiq u e G au l

241

interactions with his children even in their adulthood, placing the encouragement through strict discipline of their political accomplishments and their enhancing of the family name at the centre of the father-child relationship. In an overtly Classicizing style, Sidonius creates a persona for himself in his epistulae as a solid Roman republican senator (or his interpretation of such a figure) drawn from his Classical education, constructing himself as a ‘traditional’ paterfamilias.23 Nonetheless, when moments of crisis arise with his children, and the children of his friends, he finds he is unable to act the part outside of his writing.24 Equally in contexts other than his own epistulae, removed from his own persona, he is able and willing to describe an entirely different model of father–child relations which bears very little resemblance to the model he has created for himself; a model which describes great affection and love between father and child. This is particularly evident in his panegyric for the emperor Anthemius in which he describes the emperor as an infant greeting his father on his return from war: But when the early years of infancy were past he would clamber over his father’s amour and – gripping with his two forearms the neck pressed by close fitting metal – he would loosen the helmet and find entrance for his livid kisses.25

This is a discourse of father–child relations that is alien both to Sidonius’ descriptions of his own interactions with his own young children and from any Classical description bar Cicero. It is, however, in line with Late Antique and Christian depictions of a father greeting his child and is indicative of this changing discourse. In its focus on the neck, it is paralleled by two significant sources – one later and one earlier. The earlier is Jerome for whom the image of a child hanging on a man’s neck is a significant topos.26 Although he rarely relates this to fathers, it is an image that he repeats regularly to demonstrate an affectionate relationship between a child or woman and a male family member and was certainly an influence on the later adoption of this imagery in other contexts. The later source is Venantius Fortunatus who ends his consolatio to the Merovingian King and Queen Chilperic I and Fredegund on the deaths of their young sons with an idealized image of Chilperic playing with his future child, sent by God to replace the deceased, and a wish for the child to ‘snuggle around his parent’s necks’.27 These images of a father being intimate and affectionate with his child all appear in idealized and romanticized scenarios suggesting that this image was evolving into an ideal to be aspired to and a model of good father-infant relations. The longest description of an idyllic childhood relationship between father and child is a letter from Salvian and his wife Palladia to her parents seeking reconciliation with them. Salvian and Palladia are explicit in their use of a topos of idyllic childhood as a tool of manipulation and invoke rose-tinted memories of Palladia’s youth and her idealized interactions with her parents in order to remind them of their love and bring about the reunion that Palladia

242

Families in the R oman and L ate A ntiq u e R oman Wo rld

apparently craves. Using affectionate language (‘parentes carissime … affectus carissime’) Salvian reminds Hypatius and Quieta that a father’s love is natural (‘A father should never have hated his daughter … love itself pleads on your behalf, nature itself pleads your case’) and refers to Palladia’s obedience and love.28 The second section is allegedly written by Palladia, and she presents herself as a perfect and devoted daughter who holds their ‘loving teaching’ in her heart and referring to herself by her childhood pet names (‘uestra gracula, uestra dominilla’).29 She ends her plea for reunion by highlighting the happiness and joy of her childhood through a generalized pleasure of parents ‘having children and enjoying them to the full’.30 It is notable here that although the letter is addressed to both Palladia’s mother and father, Hydatius is singled out for attention in a way that Quieta is not. This may well be attributed to the notion that Hydatius was the primary decision-maker in the couple, or at least an idealized Christian belief that he should be. However, clearly Palladia either has affective and emotional experiences with her father that she can expect him to recognize and remember, and access to a model of affective fatherhood that Hydatius might to wish to publicly place himself within in much the same way that Sidonius attempted to place himself within the classical model of stern fatherhood. Salvian and Palladia, Sidonius and Venantius are all here employing this manner of discussing fatherhood as affectionate and intimate in idealized circumstances. This common usage suggests that this discourse was developing through this period into an aspirational one, to be imitated and for Christian men to model themselves upon or present themselves as being connected to. The literary landscapes of these educated, religious men are changing through Christian ideology and theological rationalization to incorporate a new and commendable image of father and infant.

Fathers and Adult Offspring As this dialogue allowed men a new mode of discussing their role as a father of young children, so it too allowed men access to the vocabulary to document their interactions with their adult offspring in a more intimate manner, albeit in a more subdued manner. When describing their method of parenting their adult children, especially sons, very few of these Gallo-Roman men aim to present their children in a manner recognizable to a literary gentleman of the Roman world. Only Sidonius, with his great love for Classical Roman ideals, attempts to fit himself into this model. For example, when he defines his relationship with his oldest son in a letter to his friend Firminus, he describes himself as: … one of those fathers who are so eager, so ambitious and so apprehensive about the progress of their sons that they hardly ever find anything to commend or, if they do, are hardly ever satisfied.31



Fatherho o d in L ate A ntiq u e G au l

243

His emphasis here is on his own anxiety and desire for his son to be successful in his political and public career to enhance the family name. This is a sentiment he regularly expresses in relation to his own offspring and others, for example praising Simplicus on two separate occasions for being surpassed by his children’s achievements and in his preoccupation with the virtues of a traditional Roman political career.32 However, in virtually all cases in these texts it becomes clear that Sidonius’ model of disapproval and care for the common good is not one that is popular. Further, in one letter Sidonius demonstrates that he is unable to sustain any true semblance of severity when a son and daughter err in their behaviour. In this letter to his friend Proculus Sidonius writes stating that Proculus’ son has arrived at Sidonius’ home having run away from his father. The tone of Sidonius’ letter is conciliatory and he has the specific aim of preventing Proculus from taking violent action against his son. He writes that he has rebuked the young man with ‘stern words and threatening looks’ and asks Proculus not to ‘torture’ or hurt him but to ‘be indulgent and forgive’, with appeals to the ‘anguish’ he is sure Proculus feels and hints at the gladness the son will feel knowing he is forgiven. When I heard what he had done, I rebuked him for this truancy with sharp words and threatening looks … I entreat you, therefore, to show mercy on one who now shows none to himself; imitate Christ and do not condemn him who admits that he deserves to be condemned … no torture you can inflict will hurt him like his own remorse. Free him from his despairing fears; justify my confidence in you; relieve yourself from the secret anguish you must feel (if I know aught of a father’s feelings) … I shall only have done him harm if you lift a finger against him, which I trust you will not do unless you mean to remain as hard as rock and rigid as impenetrable adamant. If I am right in expecting something better from your known character and warm heart, be indulgent and forgive … what gladness will fill his soul, when he casts himself at his father’s feet and receives from those injured lips … not reproaches but a kiss!33

Clearly this is, particularly compared to Sidonius’ usual stilted and rather cold style of writing, an emotional and tender letter despite the crimes committed by the Proculus’ son. It appeals directly to Proculus’ presumed emotional state as worried and anguished and exhorts him to be Christ-like in his paternal behaviour. Again, Sidonius fails to act out his idealized model of the father who considers future goodness over present comfort as he begs Proculus not to punish his son’s crimes, while his encouragement to allow the son to be secure again in his father’s heart directly contradicts his stern warning to Simplicus about his paternal behaviour.34 Furthermore, it could be suggested that the decision of Proculus’ son to surrender himself to Sidonius’ mercy over any other hints that perhaps the strict persona of Sidonius’ letters bore little resemblance to his real life persona.

244

Families in the R oman and L ate A ntiq u e R oman Wo rld

This same pattern is true for Ruricius in his described dealings with his sons as he attempts to frame rather indulgent behaviour as being the trait of a stern father, while also demonstrating at length his affection and blind love for his children. In his moments of sternness, Ruricius attempts to control his adult son Constantius, who appears to have been rather fonder of music and parties than chastity and moderation. In his first letter Ruricius admonishes him with gentle care, but without any wholehearted desire to persuade him to stop indulging in such un-Christian pursuits entirely: It is good occasionally to retreat from such things and to spend more time with the Lord rather than with Liber and to pay attention to parents rather than to melodies.35

It is not until a subsequent letter that reveals that Constantius has paid no heed to his father’s gentle rebuke and has brazenly broken an oath he had made to live a more Christian life, and Ruricius becomes quietly enraged and writes that he will withhold some promised money in an attempt to curb Constantius’ unsavoury lifestyle. Although here he seems to be taking action and sanctioning Constantius, the letter also reveals that he has previously been supporting him and his un-Christian ways in a thoroughly indulgent manner and that he is unwilling to take even this action.36 This same indulgent behaviour, along with his children’s awareness of it and willingness to take advantage of their father’s love, is shown in a series of later letters to bishop Aprunculus regarding his sons Ommantius and Eparchius who were at this time clerics at Clermont. In the first letter Ruricius writes asking Aprunculus to forgive his sons for some ‘foolishness’ they had committed, citing letters ‘full of tears and lamentation’ and apparent repentance sent by Ommatius and Eparchius.37 In the second, however, it is made clear that Ruricius has discovered somehow exactly what ‘foolishness’ his sons had committed. He is apparently informed by Aprunculus that their crime was in fact serious enough to warrant excommunication; a fact both Ommantius and Eparchius had omitted among their regretful tears and lamentations.38 Here Ruricius truly displays his lenience. Rather than punish his sons or allow them to accept their punishment from their bishop or indeed admonish them in any way that has survived in the textual record, he chooses to defend them. Furthermore, he politely – but firmly- accuses the bishop of overreacting in his punishment by referring again to the father of the prodigal son as a favourable and admirable model to be imitated.39 These letters, each of which was collated and edited by the authors themselves, openly display dramatic and traumatic moments in their lives as fathers; times when their offspring (or that of a friend) failed to live up to their expectations by committing heinous crimes against their religion or their family and their responses to them. In each case the father responds by demonstrating their love and affection by defending and protecting the child from any possible punishment. This is noteworthy as a dramatic and exceptional change in the way such experiences are discussed in self-edited public texts. In texts which



Fatherho o d in L ate A ntiq u e G au l

245

have been designed to create a public, idealized persona, these men are willingly creating an image of themselves handling challenging situations with their adult children with indulgence, love and care. This same discourse of permissive fatherhood is seen in other presentations of idealized fathers of the same period. Paulinus of Pella, for example, aims with his autobiographical Eucheristicon Deo sub Ephemeridis Meae Textu to describe a childhood and young manhood which is ideal in every way, particularly with regard to his relationship with his father. In particular, having described his childhood as one in which his parents were only involved in his education and discipline, he later dwells upon his father’s reaction and behaviour towards his illness as a young adult. First he states that his father has given up hunting and games while Paulinus was studying to enter an ascetic life so as not to interrupt Paulinus’ studies with requests to join him nor to enjoy such pursuits without his son. Paulinus is obviously impressed by this sacrifice and displays it proudly as a marker of his father’s excellence in his care for his son.40 When Paulinus falls ill and is unable to continue his studies he describes his father taking up such hobbies again in order to give Paulinus a way to re-build his strength. Having recovered, Paulinus goes on to describe his father delighting in his restored health so much as to surrender in to his every whim and desire, driven by ‘the excessive affection of parents’, an attribute which he apparently considers to be universally familiar and reasonable to his audience.41 He happily describes how such ‘excessive affection’ allowed him to live a life of hedonism through his twenties, producing at least one illegitimate son with a household slave and potentially many more.42 Eventually, his parents find a wife for him to marry to curb his wild and un-Christian behaviour, a move which again he characterizes as being undertaken as a result of their ‘anxious care’ for his well-being. As he enters full adulthood, with a wife and properties to administer, he still describes his relationship with his parents as full of ‘mutual joys and without argument’ and he claims to have spent six months of every year living with them. As Paulinus turned 40, however, his father died and Paulinus’ grief is palpable as he describes the relationship he had with his father throughout his adult years and compares his loss to the horrors of the ‘barbarian’ invasions: But for me the havoc wrought on my home by the ravage of the enemy, though great in itself, was much lighter when compared with boundless grief for my departed father, who made both my country and my home itself dear to me. For, indeed, by rendering kindness to each other in genuine affection, we so knit in our uneven ages, that in our agreement we surpassed friends of even ages. He, then, so dear a comrade and trusty chancellor, was withdrawn from me in the early season of my youth.43

Thus, Paulinus describes in the highest possible terms and at great length events spanning three decades of his life which involved his father and himself in a loving, affectionate and close relationship. His every description of his father’s actions, including those which allowed him to live a life of which he now claims

246

Families in the R oman and L ate A ntiq u e R oman Wo rld

to be deeply ashamed, is related as if it were the excellent behaviour of an excellent father and he is presented as being ideal in every way from his interest in Paulinus’ education to his sacrifices to his indulgence to his adulthood friendship. A remarkably similar set of images of fatherhood can be seen in the roughly contemporary hagiographical account of the life of Saint Honoratus by Saint Hilary of Arles (AD 401–449). This vita contains an unusual section detailing Honoratus’ father’s reaction to his son’s decision to enter an ascetic profession. Although the disapproving parent is a common trope of Late Antique hagiography, particularly for women, Hilary’s version is unusual in its length and in the central role that Honoratus’ father plays in the vita even after his son’s conversion. The father is depicted by Hilary as being fearful for his son and taking up ‘hunting and other youthful practices’ in an attempt to entice Honoratus away from his chosen career. Although at the start of this vita Hilary appears unsympathetic towards the father’s hostility to Honoratus’ desired ascetic career, by this point he is remarkably understanding of his motivations saying that he wished ‘to grow young again, as it were, for companionship with his youthful son’. He goes on to explicitly defend the father’s actions: Nor was it unreasonable for his worldly father to fear that his son was being snatched from him, the son whom, among all other most excellent young men, he loved entirely as his own.44

This is a unique take on the image of the hindering father in Late Antique hagiography as it paints the father as a sympathetic character with whom one is allowed to empathize, indeed Hilary encourages his audience not to condemn the man who tried to prevent Honoratus from taking a religious life by describing his actions as entirely natural and reasonable. Nonetheless, Honoratus defies his father and enters an ascetic career. At this point in most hagiographical vitae parents and families fall out of view, having served their purpose as obstacles to be overcome by the holy person. Here, Hilary goes on to describe Honoratus’ terrible physical condition as a result of his ascetic practices – dressed in sack cloth with shorn hair, thin, pale, weak and quiet from fasting – and his father’s reaction to seeing his son in such a way: ‘In short, he was so completely changed into another man from what he had been that his father grieved as a parent would grieve who had been bereft of his son.’45 Again here we see men openly and proudly discussing their relationships with their fathers and sons as being filled with emotional pleasure and closeness defined by shared interests and mutual care. Primarily what is depicted through these texts is the explicit sharing of paternal anxiety for children and attempts to defend and protect them even as adults.



Fatherho o d in L ate A ntiq u e G au l

247

Children as Emotional Fulfilment As this discourse of affective fatherhood gained cultural currency and popularity, another facet gradually appears to be emerging by the sixth century: that of a concept of procreation as an emotionally fulfilling, as well as being a necessary requirement to complete a marriage contract. By the sixth century there is some clear movement towards discussing childbirth and children in a manner which depicts fatherhood as a role to be attained in its own right simply for ‘the pleasure of having children and enjoying them to the full’.46 There are two very clear examples of this from two contemporary Christian authors of the sixth century: Venantius Fortunatus and Gregory of Tours. Venantius Fortunatus discusses fatherhood in just one place – a consolation poem to a man named Dagulf commemorating the death of his wife, Vilithuta, and their son during childbirth. Unlike many Christian writers of the period, Venantius refrains from an insistence upon controlled mourning under the theological justification that excessive grief was to question God, but instead wrote a letter which maintains an emotional resonance today in his descriptions of Vilithuta’s idealized life and their love for one another.47 Venantius deliberately heightens the pathos throughout the poem with highly emotive descriptions of a perfect woman and a perfect marriage which peaks with his account of the woman and child’s death and Dagulf ’s reaction to the tragedy: Wishing to be a father – one of three – alas he finds himself alone … He thus wept tears for the burial of a child scarce born, he saw what he should mourn, not what love should possess.48

Despite Venantius’ earlier focus on Vilithuta and her life and marriage, when re-counting Dagulf ’s reaction to the loss of his wife and child he chooses to emphasize the death of the child over and above the woman in his interpretation of Dagulf ’s reaction. This fictionalized version of Dagulf ’s thought process is extremely important, however, as it describes an apparently acceptable and idealized masculine response to such an incident, one in which Dagulf wants to be a father and who suffers enormous disappointment that he will not have a child to ‘love’ and ‘possess’. Furthermore, with his remark that Dagulf desired to be ‘one of three’ he suggests that a child could be viewed and depicted as completing a nuclear family unit as well as an individual desire to be a father. As this poem is designed to be an epitaph, it can be assumed to depict highly stylized and idealized imagery that presents the best possible image of both husband and wife to a wider audience, and thus Venantius expects that this audience will understand and empathize with Dagulf. Venantius refers to a shared understanding between himself and his readers with regard to fatherhood and expresses it in highly emotional language to induce an emotional response from his audience, a shared understanding that fatherhood simply for the pleasure of loving and possessing a child was a laudable ambition

248

Families in the R oman and L ate A ntiq u e R oman Wo rld

and that the frustration of that ambition could be considered emotionally devastating. The second example is found in Gregory of Tours’ hagiographical account of the miracles of Saint Martin of Tours. This work, as with most hagiographies of the period, was written as a series of vignettes depicting troubled or ill lay people who are helped or cured by the divinely sanctioned intercession of the saint. Throughout Late Antique and Medieval hagiography fathers with sick or deceased children are a constant presence, grieving or searching for help. Many are depicted as being with their wives, but many too are shown to be single parents and apparently sole carers. Gregory includes in his multitude of miracle tales a great many father and child relationships, in all of which the father is openly and unashamedly grief-stricken, often displaying public emotional gestures the least of which would be calling upon the local holy man or holy tomb for divine assistance.49 In this particular vignette, a unique aspect is added to a familiar tale. Gregory describes an infant whose mother has died in childbirth and who is now refusing to take milk and gradually dying. His sole guardian is his father, who Gregory portrays as grieving, scared and desperate to cure his son. Gregory describes this man as desiring his son to be cured because ‘he was the only reminder of his wife’s love’.50 Their son here is again depicted as a part of the two people and his birth as an expression of a husband and wife’s love for one another. Again this appears in literature which is by nature morally unambiguous, containing only one dimensional characters who tend to be simply ‘good’ or ‘bad’ Christians. That this passage would be recorded in such demonstrative detail is striking and suggests that the literary discourses which allowed men to be depicted openly and publicly grieving and worrying about their children without embarrassment or shame had developed into strong cultural assumptions about how fathers acted and what fatherhood was. These two passages contain many similarities: first, they both concern a man facing the death of his wife and child and both describe his emotional response to such an incident in a similar and highly emotive manner; second, each scenario occurs in highly stylized genres of literature, genres which for good reasons tend towards depicting only ideal behaviours; third, each text is composed by men who chose to never marry and to never have children and so neither can describe such scenes from any semblance of personal experience. These similarities strongly suggest that the image of the emotionally engaged father has by the sixth century gained such cultural currency as to be almost a trope of literature in its own right.

Conclusions All these descriptions of fathers interacting with their adult children both male and female when presented together clearly demonstrate the by the fourth century there was a clear and strong discourse within which men could openly



Fatherho o d in L ate A ntiq u e G au l

249

and with pride discuss fatherhood in emotional terms. Each of these depictions of the role of father is one which is presented as idealized or laudable. None suggests that indulgent or emotional interactions with children either infant or adult were to be subjects to be avoided in public discourse. Indeed many are willing to describe their emotional anguish and worry about their children, to refer to love (amor/amare) and affection (affectus).51 Furthermore, they apparently expect that such sentiments will be shared and understood by their male, educated audiences. That such references should appear in such diverse genres as theological letters, friendly letters, theological treatises, hagiography, consolatio, panegyric, and epithalamia (wedding songs) is striking; that such images appear so frequently in such stylized and idealizing literature is testament to the vitality and significance of this discourse. It is impossible and unwise to suggest that this changing manner of representing and discussing the role of father and of fatherhood represents a changing lived experience for men who had children or their offspring. What is does represent is another facet of the rapidly changing textual world of Late Antiquity as Christian moral philosophy and theological theorizing began to dramatically affect the way educated, religious men considered, viewed, discussed and represented their own roles within the family.

Notes 1

See for example Saller, 1991; 1994; 1999; Eyben, 1991; Garnsey, 1997; Lacey, 1986; Dixon, 1992, pp. 145–148; Bullough, 1994, pp. 33–34; Hadley, 1999; Morgan, 1877; and Veyne, 1992. 2 As is demonstrated by both the sub-title (Women and the Elite Family) and her invented word ‘filiafocality’ which forms the basis of her argument. 3 For example Nathan, 2000; and Shaw, 1987. 4 Saller, 1991; 1994; 1999. 5 Ariès, 1960. His thesis is emotively recounted by Edward Shorter, who considered his own work to be a continuation of Ariès, as he described ‘traditional child-rearing’ by parents who ‘did not care’ as ‘the ghastly slaughter of innocents’ (1976, p. 204). 6 Most notably through Beryl Rawson’s numerous and seminal edited collections 1986; 1991; 1997 (with Paul Weaver); 2003. 7 Cicero Att. 1.1.18; 12.18; 19; 20; Fam. 4.5; 4.6. This is by far the best documented father–child relationship in Roman literature, to the extent that Judith Hallett has accused Cicero of having an ‘obsessive fixation’ on his daughter (1984, p. 134). 8 La Bonnardière, 1975, pp.  101–123; Poque, 1984, pp.  193–224, and De Bruyn, 1999. The concept, according to de Bruyn’s analysis, appears to have developed from a biblical source: ‘Whom the Lord loves, he rebukes and he scourges every son he receives’ (Hebrews 12:16 and Proverbs 3:12) which Augustine is extremely fond of quoting. According to De Bruyn Augustine cites this passage 52 times throughout his works, ‘far more than any of his predecessors in the Latin Christian tradition’ (1999, 249). The idea develops from the third century, apparently from Cyprian (d. AD 254), and is espoused and gradually developed by Jerome (AD 340/2–420)) who used the motif to evolve ideas about Christian humility, power, authority and punishment and to provide a framework for understanding the world’s ills. Jerome, Soph. 1.12; Ep. 68.1; Os. 3.11.3–4; Is. 1.7; 6.14; Ier. 2.17; Pel. 1.29 (CCL 76A 527–528; 76A: 904; 76:244; VL 27:631; CCL 75:75; CSEL 59: 82–83); Paulinus of Nola Epist. 20.5; 29.8; Carm. 20.226–232. Richard Saller has also examined this development: 1994, pp. 133–153, esp. 137: ‘The special

250

Families in the R oman and L ate A ntiq u e R oman Wo rld

potency for Romans of the symbolic act of beating hinged on its association with slavery.’ He traces the shift in attitude through the influence of Christian thought at 1994, pp. 145–146: ‘In Augustine’s view…sin provides the imperative for corporal punishment, now a manifestation of paternal love, as never before.’ See also Saller, 1991. 9 ‘This being so, the question is asked why, if everything in the world is controlled by the care, governance and judgment of God, the external aspects of life among the barbarians is so much better than ours; why even among us the lot of good men is more difficult than that of the bad?’, De Gubernatione Dei 3.1. 10 Salvian, De Gubernatione Dei 3.10–14.26; 7.3–7.20; 7.22–27.23. 11 De Gubernatione Dei 6.16. Quamvis nobis etiam indignis interdum tribuantur bona, quia bonus domini quasi indulgentissimis pater…et ideo nunc asperis rebus castigat suos pro disciplina, nunc tranquillis fovet pro indulgentia. So taken is Salvian with this theological explanation that he states that God granted mortals with the capacity to love their offspring in order that they can understand how much He loves them in order to truly highlight the strength of God’s love (4.9 ‘From Him we have received all the love where with we love our children’, ab ipso utique affectum omnem quo pignora nostra amamus accepimus). 12 Particularly, it echoes Augustine’s Serm 5.2 ‘That’s how much God loves men….If he loves and yet reproves, do likewise yourself; if you have anyone under your authority, while you maintain your felling of love for them do not deny them the rod of correction.’ 13 Ruricius Epist. 1.2. The prodigal son: Luke 15:11–32. Although, as we shall see, in his own paternal behaviours he bears far more relation to the latter than the former! 14 Caesarius of Arles, Sermons 13; 185.1; 200.6 Caesarius as bishop of Arles was one of the primary conduits for the teachings and moral philosophies of Augustine to move into Gaul (Klingshirn 1994, pp. 9–12.) 15 For example Sidonius where his every reference to a daughter involves her father and refers to kindliness or care: Epist. 2.4 ‘love, guidance and care;’ 2.8; 3.11; 4.9; 5.19. This is not a dramatic departure from classical discourse of father–daughter relationships as is demonstrated by Judith Hallett (1984, pp. 76–132). 16 Paterfamilias here is used in the modern sense to mean a stern and powerful head of household, rather than the more proper Roman usage as defined by Saller, 1999. 17 Eucheristicon 55; 77. Libertas ludusque at laetior aetas. 18 Eucheristicon 60–71. ‘And albeit this discipline has long since fallen out of use through the corruption, doubtless, of the age, yet, I declare, the antique Roman fashion I observed delights me more.’ Quarum iam dudum nullus vigeat licet usus disciplinarum, vitiato scilicet aevo, me Romana tamen, fateor, servata vetustas plus iuvat. This lament for a lost Golden Era of perfect discipline and strict parenting is itself a classical trope. 19 Eucheristicon 122–131; 139; 220–225; 232–246. See below for more on this relationship. Paulinus’ father dies when Paulinus is 40, an age he describes as ‘the early season of my youth’. 20 Sidonius Apollinaris Epist. 5.16; 5.4. In Epist. 3.11 however, Sidonius describes Simplicus as a model father to his daughter having brought her up and married her well. 21 Sidonius Apollinaris Epist. 2.0; 4.1; 22 Sidonius Apollinaris Epist. 7.9 severis patribus comparandus, qui iuvenum filiorum non tam cogitant vota quam commoda. 23 Sidonius is obviously very proud of his classical education, and leaves no opportunity to display it untouched. His epithalamium for example (Carm. 15) is a repository of obscure and difficult references to Greek myth and literature. His deep attachment to Rome and an idealized Roman political life is also made very clear in his epistles through his shock and disappointment that some would decide not to involve themselves in such pursuits, a decision he considers shameful (Epist. 1.3; 1.6; 5.16; 7.7; 8.8). Also his horror at the adoption of Germanic languages over Latin: Epist. 3.3; 4.8; 5.5. 24 Sidonius Apollinaris Epist. 5.19; 4.23. 25 Sidonius Apollinaris Panegyric 134–137. At postquam primos infans exagerat annos, reptabat super arma patris, quamque arta terebat lamina cervicam gemina complexus ab ulna livida laxatis intrabat at oscula cristis. 26 For the most part Jerome relates the image of a child hanging on a man’s neck to uncles and



Fatherho o d in L ate A ntiq u e G au l

251

grandfathers, and it is a theme very much drawn from classical literature. He also uses the image to describe vulnerable women on several occasions. See for example Epist. 3; 14; 54; 60; 79; 107; 128. 27 Venantius Fortunatus Carm. 9.2. Ille tibi poterit de coniuge cui pater adludat, ubere mater alat, qui madius verstri reprans per colla parentum. 28 Salvian, Epist. 4.4; 5 scilicet ut patris motus non detrimenta amoris sint. 29 Salvian Epist. 4 Obedience: 83–86; Nicknames and play: 96–101. 30 Salvian Epist. 4. 101–105. Et beatitudine perfruendi. 31 Sidonius Apollinaris Epist. 9.1. 32 Epist. 3.11 ‘you surpass everyone because your children surpass you’, ‘id circo ceteros vincitis, quod vos filii transierunt’; 7.9 ‘so that the father, comparing them with himself, is all the happier for the discovery that he is already being surpassed’, ‘quibus comparatus pater inde felicior incipit esse, quia vincitur’. For Sidonius’ preoccupations with Roman politics as a correct pathway for educated men see n. 13. 33 Sidonius Apollinaris Epist. 4.23. 34 ‘I want you, when he returns, not to open him your door alone, but your heart as well. Great God! what a bright day will dawn for you, what joyous news it will be to me, what gladness will fill his soul, when he casts himself at his father’s feet and receives from those injured lips, those lips of terrible aspect, not reproaches but a kiss!’, ‘et revertentem non domo solum sed et pectore admittas. deus magne, quam laetus orietur tibi dies, mihi nuntius, animus illi, cum paternis pedibus affusus ex illo ore laeso, ore terribili, dum convicium expectat, osculum exceperit!’ cf. Epist. 5.4 35 Ruricius, Epist. 2.24. et magis Domino vacare, quam Libero, parentibus quoque operam dare, quam cantibus. 36 Mathisen, 1999, 23–24; 182. 37 Ruricius Epist. 2.57 filii nostril Omachius et Epachius ad me litteras plenas lacrymis et deploratione miserunt. 38 Epist. 2.58 It is unfortunately unstated precisely what Eparchius’ crime was, but Mathisen in his introduction to his translation of the letter provides some possibilities from canon law. He also cites Gregory of Tours (Glor.Mart. 86, PL 71.819A) on a cleric named ‘Eparchius’ who was allegedly an uncontrollable drunk as a further possibility (Mathisen, 1999: 229). 39 Epist. 2.58. 40 Eucheristicon 128–131. 41 Euchersiticon 131–139. nimuim affectu parentum. 42 Eucheristicon 115–175. He claims these events fell between the ages of 18 and 29, ‘late for my time of life’. 43 Eucheristicon 239–247 At mihi damna domus populantem inlata per hostem, per se magna licet, multo leviora fuere defuncti patris inmodico conlata dolori, per quem cara mihi et patria et domus ipsa fiebat: tamque etenim fido tradentes mutua nobis officia affectu conserto viximus aevo, vinceret aequaevos nostra ut concordia amicos. Hoc igitur mihi subtracto inter prima iuventae tempora tam caro socio et monitore fideli. 44 Sermo De Vita Sancti Honorati Episcopi Arelatensis  6. Studiis juvenuti illicere, diversis mundi vanitatibus irretire,et quasi in collegium cum filio adolescente juvenescere (PL 50 1252B). 45 Sermo De Vita Sancti Honorati Episcopi Arelatensis 6 Nec immeritouem secularis pater proripi timebat, quem inter reliquos orratissimos juvenes velut unicum complectebatur (PL 50 1252C). 46 Salvian Epist. 4.2. 47 Venantius Fortunatus Carm. 4.26. 48 Venantius Fortunatus Carm. 4.26. Tertius esse pater cupiens, heu, solus habetur. 49 For example: De Miraculis Sancti Martini Episcopi: 1.26; 30; 2.14; 3.2; 6; 27; 41; 51; 4.3; 14; 18; (PL 71 1027C; 1046C; 1083B; 1084D; 1095A; 1101B; 1106C; 1117C; 1123A; 1126C); Virtutibus Et Gloria Sancti Juliani Martyris 5; 6; 38; 39 (PL 71.853B; 854D; 878A; 878B). 50 De Miraculis Sancti Martini Episcopi 2.43. (PL 71.1067B) Erat enim unicam patri de uxorial dicetuione quodam memorial. 51 In the legal Latin of the Digest, and in some classical Latin affectus (adfectus) carries a meaning of consent, willing or volition. (See for example the references given by Lewis and Short: Dig.

252

Families in the R oman and L ate A ntiq u e R oman Wo rld

43, 4, 1; 44, 7, 54; 3, 5, 19.) However, in this period, the word is primarily used to denote fondness, compassion or affection.

Bibliography Airlie, S. (2001), ‘The history of emotions and emotional history’, EME, 10, (2), 235–241. Bullough, V. L. (1994), ‘On being male in the middle ages’, in Lees C. A. (ed.), Medieval Masculinities: Regarding Men in the Middle Ages, Minnesota, MN: University of Minnesota Press, pp. 31–46. Cantarella, E. (2003), ‘Fathers and sons in Rome’, CW, 96, (3), 281–298. De Bruyn, T. (1999), ‘Flogging a son: the emergence of the “pater flagellans” in Latin Christian discourse’, JECS, 7, (2), 249–290. Dixon, S. (1992), The Roman Family, Baltimore, MA: Johns Hopkins Press. Eyben, E. (1991), ‘Fathers and sons’, in Rawson B. (ed.), Marriage, Divorce and Children in Ancient Rome, Oxford: Clarendon, pp. 114–143. Foxhall, L. and Salmon, J. (1999), When Men Were Men: Masculinity, Power and Identity in Classical Antiquity, New York and London: Routledge. Garnsey, P. (1997), ‘Sons, slaves – and Christians’, in Rawson, B. and Weaver, P. (eds), The Roman Family in Italy: Status, Sentiment and Space, Oxford: Clarendon, pp. 101–122. Hadley, D. M. (1999), Masculinity in Medieval Europe, London: Longman. Hallett, J. P. (1984), Fathers and Daughters in Roman Society. Women and the Elite Family, Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press. Jorgensen Intyre, C. (1996), ‘The emotional universe of medieval Icelandic fathers and sons’, in Jorgensen Intyre, C. (ed.), Medieval Family Roles, New York and London: Routledge, pp. 173–196. Klingshirn, W. E. (1994), Caesarius of Arles: The Making of a Christian Community in Late Antique Gaul, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. La Bonnardière, A. (1975), Biblia Augustiniania: Le Livre de Proverbes, Paris: Études Augustiniennes. Lacey, W. K. (1986), ‘Patria Potestas’ in Rawson, B. (ed.), The Family in Ancient Rome: New Perspectives, Ithaca. NY: Cornell University Press. Laes, C. (2005), ‘Childbeating in Roman antiquity: some reconsiderations’, in Mustakallio, K.; Hanska, J., Sainio, H.-L. and Vuolanto, V. (eds), Hoping for Continuity: Childhood, Education and Death in Antiquity and the Middle Ages, Rome: Institutum Romanum Finlandae, pp. 75–89. Lyon, J. R. (2008), ‘Fathers and sons: preparing noble youths for adulthood in twelfth-century Germany’, JMH, 34, 291–310. Mathison, R. W. and Sivan, H. (1996), Shifting Frontiers in Late antiquity, UK: Brookfield. McDonnell, M. (2006), Roman Manliness and the Roman Republic, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.



Fatherho o d in L ate A ntiq u e G au l

253

McLaughlin, M. (1999), ‘Secular and spiritual fatherhood in the eleventh century’, in Murray, J. (ed.), Conflicted Identities and Multiple Masculinities Men in the Medieval West, New York and London: Routledge, pp. 25–44. Mclynn, N. B. (1995), ‘Paulinus the impertinent: a study of the Eucheristicos’, JECS, 3, (4), 461–486. Morgan, L. (1877), Ancient Society, or, Researches in the Lines of Human Progress from Savagery through Barbarism to Civilization, London: MacMillan & Co. Murray, J. (1999), Conflicted Identities and Multiple Masculinities Men in the Medieval West, New York and London: Routledge. Nathan, G. S. (2000), The Family in Late Antiquity: The Rise of Christianity and the Endurance of Tradition, New York and London: Routledge. Poque, S. (1984), Le Langage Symbolique dans la Prédication d’Augustin d’Hippone: Images Héroïques, Paris: Études Augustiniennes. Rawson, B. (1986), The Family in Ancient Rome: New Perspectives, London: Croom Helm. —(1991), ‘Adult-child relationships in Roman society’ in Rawson, B. (ed.) Marriage, Divorce and Children in Ancient Rome, Oxford: Clarendon, pp. 7–30. —(1991), Marriage, Divorce and Children in Ancient Rome, Oxford: Clarendon. —(ed.) (2003), Children and Childhood in Roman Italy, Oxford: Oxford University Press. Rawson, B. and Weaver, P. (1997), The Roman Family in Italy: Status, Sentiment, Space, Oxford: Clarendon. Saller, R. P. (1991), ‘Corporal punishment, authority and obedience in the Roman household’ in Rawson, B. (ed.), Marriage, Divorce and Children in Ancient Rome, Oxford: Clarendon pp. 143–165. —(1994), Patriarchy, Property and Death, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. —(1999), ‘Paterfamilias, materfamilias and the gendered semantics of the Roman household’, CP, 94, (2), 182–197. Shaw, B. D. (1987), ‘The family in late antiquity: the experience of Augustine’, Past and Present, 115, 3–51. Stafford, P. (2001), ‘Parents and children in the early middle ages’, EME, 10, (2), pp 257–271. Thomas, Y. (1996), ‘Fathers as citizens of Rome, Rome as a city of fathers (second century BC-second century AD)’, in Burguiré, A., Klapisch-Zuber, C., Segalen M. and Zonabend, F. (eds), A History of the Family, Vol. I, translated by HanburyTenison, S., Morris, R. and Wilson, A., Cambridge: Polity, pp. 228–269. Veyne, P. (1992) A History of Private Life: Volume One, Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press.

14

Afterword: Possibilities Natalie Kampen It seems clear that one can no longer write a book called, unproblematically, The Roman Family because the notion of a unified category, THE, a singular entity, FAMILY, and even a coherent identity, ROMAN, is increasingly troubled not only by constructivist and deconstructive thinking but by intensified and diversified research.1 The field has become both expanded and expansive, and it has moved far beyond the late nineteenth and early twentieth century Paulys days of a master narrative of movement from tribe to extended family to Christian nuclear family, although elements of some of these may yet turn out to be interesting.2 The family is, in a structural sense, a valuable heuristic category, something acknowledged by Romans and moderns alike as having an a priori validity; however, the particulars emerging from current work complicate the category deeply. Not only do we see a change in theoretical frameworks (what with everything from phenomenology to model-building in the scholarly toolbox) and the expansion of data-sets which now allow much broader conclusions, we have available new scientific technologies such as those that allow sophistication in things as varied as osteology and paleobotany, all of which extend the possibilities for our understanding of families in the Roman world. And at the same time, we the scholars are no longer quite the same as the people who did the pioneering early work in the field. In addition to talking about some aspects of the field in its current state and developing the points I outlined above, doing so particularly in relation to Roman art history and archaeology (my own areas of interest), I will end by proposing some of the ways in which we, the producers of our field, are different and thus produce a different Roman family. The message that we are dealing increasingly with Roman families rather than a unified or singular phenomenon is by no means new in the past 40 years, as Larsson Lovén and Harlow point out in the introduction to this volume. This is especially true since the deconstructive efforts of Richard Saller and the mosaic of new material produced under the aegis of Beryl Rawson.3 There clearly were extended families living in the same places at the same times as grandmothers living with grandsons; nuclear families and joint families seem to have been present in places like Roman Britain; and many families consisted of blood kin, unrelated dependents such as enslaved and freed workers, and people being raised in the household as foundlings, distant relations, and students. To compare Herodes Atticus’ household of wife and

A fterwo rd

255

children, slaves and freedmen, children of freedmen whom he was raising, trophimoi, and various students as well as an endless stream of long-term guests with that of a poor villager supporting a wife, children, perhaps his or her aged parent or relative who happened to live longer than most, and maybe a slave, is to gain a sense of the range of possibilities for Roman families.4 Ummidia Quadratilla, a friend of Pliny the Younger, lived with her grandson in a household full of slaves and a troupe of mimes.5 Presumably the mimes thought of themselves as a familia (as did troupes of gladiators and other groups of entertainers) within her domus, and perhaps she thought of them as part of her familia. Both uses of the term are well known and reveal the way kin, dependents, and animal and material property could all come together in Roman thinking. Some families existed outside the parameters of Roman law because the partners who lived together and had children together were not eligible to marry. Informal marriages (contubernium) between slaves or a slave and a freed person prior to manumission, or between a serving soldier and a woman before the formal granting to soldiers of the ius conubium or right to marry, or again between a Roman citizen and someone without citizenship in the days before Caracalla granted citizenship to everyone who lived within the Empire all existed and are well documented.6 And although we know little about the people who cohabited but did not marry, we do know that the group included those for who the complete lack of heritable property, or any property at all, made formal marriage utterly irrelevant. And yet they may have thought of themselves as families, but whether they saw themselves as part of a familia or domus remains unknown. For the upwardly mobile as for those with property, asserting that one was part of a familia did matter, and the shared notion of family as kin, dependents and property could be found throughout the Empire from the Republic into Late Antiquity, so this structure and its legal and social benefits does indeed constitute The Roman Family. To the extent that people with power determined social categories and policed them with the law and social sanctions, the upwardly mobile found it in their interests to participate in those categories. Mander’s paper on physical contact depicted on family tombstones is a clear demonstration of the way that participation looked as it represented not only emotional but status concerns in places such as the Danube provinces. For Larsson Lovén, the representation of work as part of family biography has some similar connotations in Rome itself, and one can point to work such as that of Boatwright and others that reveals comparable interest in the documentation of sub-elite social relations and self-representation.7 But for some communities, those for example in poor rural areas in the provinces, we know little about how family was defined, nor is it always clear that our usual documents such as tombstones and inscriptions, available to those with at least a bit of money, can tell us the whole story. Similarly, although much is to be learned about how people reconfigured the notion of family through the life-cycle, as when a woman was widowed and chose whether or

256

Families in the R oman and L ate A ntiq u e R oman Wo rld

not to live with relatives rather than on her own (or perhaps had no choice), many of the documents leave out large swathes of population. Pudsey’s essay on the patterns of residence and economic support for widows, particularly in Egypt, makes fascinating use of census and legal documents, but these tend to give us more insight into the Hellenized population of Greek-speakers than into the native Egyptian population. The way Byzantine tombstones work, the point of Davies’ paper, is precisely that, as time goes on, the commemorative emphasis shifts away from families and toward important men; as a consequence both women and children and the family as a collectivity become less visible in the epigraphical record. The question of how much we know about the variations in what constituted a Roman family must always depend on where we find our sources of information and on the accidents of their preservation and accessibility. But what our data tell us thus far is that the story is much more complicated and the way people lived is more diverse than one would have assumed a century ago. The format of much of the scholarship on Roman families in recent years, articles in collections such as this one rather than monographs, supports the notion of diversity as scholars explore particular categories of information in ever greater depth and seem to find it premature to attempt scholarly syntheses. Where such syntheses appear, they tend to explore in depth one genre of information.8 Thus, a study of the Early Christian family explores textual sources (Nathan), whereas a book about the representation of elite families looks mainly at works of public art (Kampen).9 Judith Evans-Grubbs’ most recent book takes on family law under Constantine, while Bruce Frier and Thomas McGinn’s Casebook of Roman Family Law provides concrete examples of legal material.10 Beth Severy’s book on the Augustan family looks at literary as well as legal sources, and Kristina Milnor looks at the same period with some similar textual materials from the point of view of domesticity, although she is unusual in taking seriously the architectural and monumental evidence in several chapters.11 A book about Roman adoption considers Roman families through the lens of textual sources about one kind of family membership (Lindsay), and an examination of epic literature from the second half of the first century gives attention to the depiction of kinship (Bernstein).12 Increasingly, though, family is studied mainly in anthologies and collections of conference papers as well as in handbooks such as the most recent one edited by Beryl Rawson.13 The advantage of the collections of essays is not only their ability to range widely over diverse moments, places and sources, as one sees in the present volume, but also their ability to provide a kind of mosaic or collage of material that insists on diversity. In this volume, for example, we get papers on Egypt, (Pudsey) Gaul (Southon), Spain and North Africa (Armani), Roman Britain (Redfern and Gowland), the Danube provinces (Mander), along with Italy (Centlivres Challet, Larsson Lovén, and Carroll) and the Late Antique world both east and west (Davies, Tougher, and

A fterwo rd

257

Callow and Harlow ). Some papers allow a focus on method, such as that of Redfern and Gowland on osteology, Tougher on prosopography, and Harlow and Callow on the analysis of life-cycle. The present volume is thus representative of current trends although it gives more space to the archaeological than many. Most recently, other anthologies have offered an extraordinary range of questions too. For example, a collection on Greek and Roman fatherlessness looks not only at legal and literary sources but at the possibilities for demographic analysis of fatherlessness; a volume on family religion extends its reach from second millennium Mesopotamia to Rome in order to permit some comparative historical analysis; and an anthology about ancestors gives pride of place to material evidence from Greece and Rome.14 The possibilities for interdisciplinary collage are interesting as are the chances to think comparatively across time and space, but relatively few collections until quite recently have managed to put archaeologists and art historians together with specialists in texts and inscriptions. The present volume, like the one edited by Michele George (2005) or the one on Early Christian families edited by Balch and Osiek (2003), differs from those produced earlier which tended to leave out material evidence, as was true of the 1984 collection edited by Beryl Rawson, one of the very first to take on the interdisciplinary study of the Roman family.15 Real interdisciplinarity, that which makes use of every kind of evidence in order to grasp the full diversity of families and to think about them as broadly as possible (as comparative material encourages), opens up new questions and methods, and yet it may be beyond the capabilities of most scholars of the ancient world. Our specializations are so complex, have such burgeoning literatures to master, demand so many languages (including mathematical and technical languages alongside Greek and Latin, demotic and modern languages in a field where translation of scholarly work is hardly the rule), and have so many internal debates that it may ultimately be totally unreasonable to ask that we as individuals do the kind of interdisciplinary work which we as a community would want to read. The collage, in addition to being terribly post-modern, may be our best way forward in this field of study. It may even result eventually in team-produced interdisciplinary monographs on family. The field of family history is clearly evolving in interesting ways, and a look back at Rawson’s collections in comparison with the two volumes of the present publication makes the changes visible. Along with more work on demography and archaeological contributions to our knowledge of diet, work, habitation, and human biology in the Roman world, all of which are crucial to understanding the workings of families, we are seeing increased focus on the way age matters as work on the life-cycle engages with these areas.16 Epigraphical and papyrological sources now play as large a role as law and elite text once did, in generating ideas about the relationship of micro-histories to large-scale structural and institutional history.17 Art history and Classical archaeology

258

Families in the R oman and L ate A ntiq u e R oman Wo rld

have been somewhat less active in pursuing this relationship, but inquiries into ‘class’ and gender, childhood, and regional diversity have increased in recent years.18 Peter Brown and others have moreover drawn many of us to explore what happens to families in Late Antiquity and to ask whether the longue durée, taking us into questions of how we imagine the Roman part of ‘Roman family’, offers useful comparisons. Scholarship in this area continues to push us to ask how different regions changed and how those changes affected social relations in Late Antiquity.19 One area in which I see rather little effort placed as yet is on theorizing the relationship between affect, the emotional life of individuals and families, and structural or institutional history. Some efforts are being made in this direction. Interesting work is going on in exploring the way Freudian and Lacanian psychoanalytic theory can help us to ask new questions about literary texts, but much of this work remains focused on individuals rather than social structures (Oliensis, Janan).20 Further, epigraphical and archaeological work have not yet found a way to open up new theoretical paths for analysis of emotional relations, although empirical work is going on in interesting ways. The gap is clear from the tendency to continue to ask about how a particular group of people, often children or women, are ‘valued’ in a community, and to continue to struggle with finding signs of affection in visual imagery where it is by no means obvious nor necessarily the motivating force behind clasped hands, touch, or even an embrace (exceptions from Dixon to Mander).21 Psychoanalytic theory has been important for investigations of vision and visuality in Roman art, especially painting (Elsner), but it has not often found its way into discussions, for example, of the way power is understood visually through architecture or urban plan or even the imagery of rulers.22 Without such connections being made explicit between affect and power, it remains difficult to think of ways for Roman art history (and other fields) to place families into larger institutional frames (Armani’s paper on terminology offers some interesting possibilities here by using linguistic anthropology as a model). In offering this review of what is new and what we have not done enough of, I want to suggest that the field of family history is changing just as are the disciplines that provide its data and methods. This is to some degree a function of the people who work in Roman history, archaeology, economics, art history, literary history and so on as much as it is of larger changes in epistemology and the theories and practices of history writing (in the largest sense of historical studies). Whereas the scholarly population in many countries was until recently male and upper or upper-middle class and white, the infusion of women and of people from lower-middle-class and working-class backgrounds (if not of people of colour in US and European contexts) has helped to change the kinds of questions being asked. If the early twentieth century scholarship on the family came largely from men with traditional interests in the law, classics, and theology, men for whom women were destined to be wives and mothers or mistresses, it was hardly surprising that the results tended to be circumscribed

A fterwo rd

259

by their backgrounds and assumptions; ours are too. The difference is of course that today it is harder in many places to assume that the elite family is the sole subject of our scrutiny, that the metropolis is the only interesting venue, and that men are the only protagonists and speakers. The scholarly population, especially those who have chosen to work on family history, is now composed of a different mix. To combine this new population of scholars, with their changed and varied concerns, with the theoretical models and debates emergent since 1968 and earlier is to see the way the field of family history has taken its recent shape. From Foucault to Hayden White to Gayatri Spivak, history writing has changed, just as psychoanalysis and deconstruction, notions of the resistant reader and broader definitions of what constitutes a text have changed literary history.23 In art history, these same theoretical changes have been felt alongside new attention to notions of visuality (culturally constructed ways of seeing) and the gaze (psychically constructed ways of seeing, perhaps), to social context, to the possibilities for multiple readings, and to art as discursively constructed.24 In archaeology, especially that done by prehistorians, theoretical debates have opened up possibilities for statistically and technologically based work with increased attention to social science and material science methods and to broad patterns of social change and social structure.25 In response to some of the cliometric and institutional approaches, other positions have emerged to stress local and individual formations and to ask how best to gain access to microhistories through archaeological data without losing track of the big picture.26 In short, the past half-century has brought all our disciplines into contact with other fields, with other debates, with other historiographies and has, in consequence, helped to make family history a new field with exciting possibilities. The struggle to find ways to speak across disciplines as well as across regional and language barriers and to find ways to integrate micro-histories with macrohistories of structures and institutions remains unresolved for the study of Roman families, but the kind of work being done and the collage of publications offers hope that young scholars may find creative and provocative ways to engage these and as yet unarticulated problems through the use of interdisciplinary and theoretically sophisticated approaches.

Notes 1 2

3 4

This is not to say that the title is not still used, but that it is used with increased awareness of its problematic nature. See for example, Dixon, 1992 or Franciosi, 2003. Leonhard in Paulys, 1894, and e.g., Herson, 1920 or the Reverend S. A. Leathley, 1922. Compare the New Paulys entry on Greek and Roman family with its separate section for Roman visual representation, with the earlier example to see the inclusion of material on social and religious life as well as legal documentation: Höcker in New Paulys, 2004. Saller, 1984 and 1994; Rawson, 1986, 1991, 1997, 2003 and 2011. See also Bettini, 1986. Tobin, 1997, 69–111; Aulus Gellius Noctes Atticarum I.2.1–2 and XVIII.10. 1–2. The poor in the Roman world are, predictably, less well documented, but see recently Atkins and Osborne, 2006, with a helpful introduction and discussion of earlier work, 1–20. Cf. Galen, 6. 749–750.

260

Families in the R oman and L ate A ntiq u e R oman Wo rld

The discussion of rural poverty from the point of view of family life still seems to be lacking, and there has been no art historical discussion of the absence of an imagery of the poor. 5 Pliny the Younger, Epistulae 7.24.1–5. 6 For example, Phang, 2001. 7 Boatwright, 2005. See also Amann, 2010; and Kleiner, 1987. 8 However, see Dixon, 1992. 9 Nathan, 2000; and Kampen, 2009. 10 Grubbs, 1995; and Frier and McGinn, 2004. 11 Severy, 2003; and Milnor, 2005. 12 Lindsay, 2009; and Bernstein, 2008. 13 Rawson, 2011. 14 Huebner and Ratzan, 2009; Bodel and Olyan, 2008; and Højte, 2002. 15 George, 2005; Balch and Osiek, 2003; and Rawson, 1984. 16 E.g., on demography: Scheidel, 2001; de Ligt and Northwood, 2008. On archaeology, e.g., Lavan and Bowden, 2003; and Driel-Murray, 1995. On life-cycle: Harlow and Laurence, 2002. 17 E.g., Bagnall, 2006. On epigraphical sources, Laes, 2007. See also on onomastics, Rizakis, 1996. 18 E.g., Uzzi, 2005; Mustakallio, 2005; Yasin, 2005; Hesberg, 2008; Stefanidou-Tiveriou, 2010. 19 Brown, 1971; Braudel, 1980; Mustakallio, 2005; Marcone, 2008; James, 2008; Ando, 2008. 20 Janan, 2001; and Oliensis, 2009. 21 Dixon, 1992 and 1997; and Mander this volume. 22 Elsner, 2007. See Vout, 2007 for discussion of imperial visual desire. 23 Foucault, 1973; White, 1987; and Spivak, 1988, among many others. 24 See, among the many interesting contributions, often by those not originally trained in art history, Mitchell, 2005; Gell, 1998; Kapur, 2000; and Ball, 2001. 25 For an overview, see Hodder, 1986, and more recently, Hodder et al., 1995, Meskell, 1999, and Hamilakis, 2007. 26 On the relationship between the micro- and the macro- in history, see the foundational comments of Scott, 1986/1999, and more recently Webster, 1997.

Bibliography Amann, P. (2010), ‘Wer wohnt im Haus? Familienstruktur und Hausarchitektur als sich ergänzenden Forschungsbereiche’, Bentz, M. and Reusser, C. (eds), in Etruskisch-italische und römisch-republikanische Häuser, Wiesbaden: Reichert, pp. 29–42. Ando, C. (2008), ‘Decline, fall, and transformation’, Journal of Late Antiquity, 1.1, 31–60. Atkins, M. and Osborne, R. (2006), Poverty in the Roman World, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Bagnall, R., Cribiore, R. and Ahtaridis, E. (2006), Women’s Letters from Ancient Egypt, 300 BC to AD 800, Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press. Balch, D. L., and Osiek, C. (eds) (2003), Early Christian Families in Context: An Interdisciplinary Dialogue, Grand Rapids, MI: W. B. Eerdmans Pub. Co. Ball, M., (2001), Looking In. The Art of Viewing, Amsterdam: G & B Arts International. Bernstein, N. W. (2008), In the Image of the Ancestors: Narratives of Kinship in Flavian Epic, Toronto: University of Toronto Press. Bettini, M. (1986), Antropologia e Cultura Romana: Parentela, Tempo, Immagini dell’Anima, Rome: La Nuova Italia Scientifica.

A fterwo rd

261

Boatwright, M. T. (2005), ‘Children and parents on the tombstones of Pannonia’, in George, M. (ed.), The Roman Family in the Empire: Rome, Italy and Beyond, Oxford and New York: Oxford University Press, pp. 287–318. Bodel, J. and Olyan, S. (eds) (2008), Household and Family Religion in Antiquity, Oxford and Malden, MA: Blackwells. Braudel, F. (1980), On History, Chicago; University of Chicago Press. Brown, P. R. L. (1971), The World of Late Antiquity, AD 150–750, New York: Harcourt Brace Jovanovich. Dixon, S. (1992), The Roman Family, Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press. —(1997), ‘Continuity and change in Roman social history. Retrieving family feeling(s) from Roman law and literature’, in Golden, M. and Toohey, P. (eds), Inventing Ancient Culture. Historicism, Periodization, and the Ancient World, London and New York: Routledge, pp. 79–90. Driel-Murray, van, C. (1995), ‘Gender in question’, in Rush, P. (ed.), Theoretical Roman Archaeology Conference II, Bradford, 28–29 March 1992, Aldershot: Avebury, pp. 3–21. Elsner, J. (2007), Roman Eyes. Visuality and Subjectivity in Art and Text, Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press. Foucault, M. (1973), The Order of Things. An Archaeology of the Human Sciences, New York: Vintage Books. Franciosi, G. (2003), La Famiglia Romana. Società e Diritto, Torino: Giappichelli. Frier, B. W. and McGinn, T. A. J. (2004), A Casebook on Roman Family Law, Oxford and New York: Oxford University Press. Gell, A. (1998), Art and Agency: An Anthropological Theory, Oxford: Clarendon Press; New York: Oxford University Press. George, M. (ed.) (2005), The Roman Family in the Empire: Rome, Italy, and Beyond, Oxford and New York: Oxford University Press. Grubbs, J. E. (1995), Law and Family in Late Antiquity: the Emperor Constantine’s Marriage Legislation, Oxford: Clarendon Press, and New York: Oxford University Press. Hamilakis, Y. (2007), The Nation and its Ruins: Antiquity, Archaeology and National Imagination in Greece, Oxford and New York: Oxford University Press. Harlow, M. and Laurence, R. (2002), Growing Up and Growing Old in Ancient Rome. A Life-Course Approach, London: Routledge. Herson, C. J. (1920), The Roman Family. Hesberg, von, H. (2008), ‘The image of the family on sepulchral monuments in the northwest provinces’, in Bell, S. and Hansen I. L. (eds), Role Models in the Roman World. Identity and Assimilation, Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press, pp. 257–272. Höcker, C. (2004), ‘Family’, in Brill’s New Pauly, Vol. 5, Leiden and Boston: Brill, pp. 332–348.

262

Families in the R oman and L ate A ntiq u e R oman Wo rld

Hodder, I. (1986), Reading the Past. Current Approaches to Interpretation in Archaeology, Cambridge and New York: Cambridge University Press. Hodder, I. and Shanks, M. (eds) (1995), Interpreting Archaeology. Finding Meaning in the Past, New York and London: Routledge. Højte, J. M. (ed.) (2002), Images of Ancestors, Aarhus: Aarhus University Press. Huebner, S. and Ratzan, D. (eds) (2009), Growing up Fatherless in Antiquity, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. James, E. (2008), ‘The rise and function of the concept “Late Antiquity” ’, Journal of Late Antiquity, 1.1, 20–30. Janan, M. W. (2001), The Politics of Desire: Propertius IV, Berkeley: University of California Press. Kampen, N. (2009), Family Fictions in Roman Art, Cambridge and New York: Cambridge University Press. Kapur, G. (2000), When was Modernism: Essays on Contemporary Cultural Practice in India, New Delhi: Tulika. Kleiner, D. E. E. (1987), ‘Women and family life on Roman imperial funerary altars’, Latomus, 46, 545–554. Laes, C. (2007), ‘Inscriptions from Rome and the history of childhood’, in Harlow, M. and Laurence, R. (eds), Age and Ageing in the Roman Empire, Portsmouth: Journal of Roman Archaeology, pp. 32–33. Lavan, L. and Bowden, W. (2003), Theory and Practice in Late Antique Archaeology, Leiden: Brill. Leathley, S. A. (1922), The Roman Family and De Ritu Nuptiarum, Oxford: Blackwells. Leonhard, P. (1894), ‘Familia’, in Paulys Real-encyclopädie der classischen Altertumswissenschaft, Vol. 6, Stuttgart, J. B. Metzler, pp. 1980–1984. Lindsay, de, L. and Northwood, S. (eds) (2008), People, Land and Politics. Demographic Developments and the Transformation of Roman Italy 300 BC to AD 14, Leiden: Brill. Lindsay, H. (2009), Adoption in the Roman World, Cambridge and New York: Cambridge University Press. Marcone, A. (2008), ‘A long Late Antiquity?: Considerations on a controversial periodization’, Journal of Late Antiquity, 1.1, pp. 4–19. Meskell, L. (1999), Archaeologies of Social Life: Age, Sex, Class et Cetera in Ancient Egypt, Oxford and Malden, MA: Blackwells. Milnor, K. (2005), Gender, Domesticity and the Age of Augustus. Inventing Private Life, Oxford and New York: Oxford University Press. Mitchell, W. J. T. (2005), What do Pictures Want? The Lives and Loves of Images, Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Mustakallio, K. (ed.) (2005), Hoping for Continuity. Childhood, Education and Death in Antiquity and the Middle Ages. Acta Instituti Romani Finlandiae 33, Rome: Institutum Romanum Finlandiae. Nathan, G. (2000), The Family in Late Antiquity: The Rise of Christianity and the Endurance of Tradition, New York and London: Routledge.

A fterwo rd

263

Oliensis, E. (2009), Freud’s Rome. Psychoanalysis and Latin Poetry, Cambridge and New York: Cambridge University Press. Phang, S. E. (2001), The Marriage of Roman Soldiers (13 BC–AD 235): Law and Family in the Imperial Army, Leiden and Boston: Brill. Rawson, B. (ed.) (1986), The Family in Ancient Rome. New Perspectives, London: Croom Helm. —(1991), Marriage, Divorce, and Children in Ancient Rome, Oxford: Clarendon Press, New York: Oxford University Press. —(2003), Children and Childhood in Roman Italy, Oxford and New York: Oxford University Press. —(ed.) (2011), A Companion to Families in the Greek and Roman Worlds, Chichester, West Sussex, UK, Malden, MA: Wiley-Blackwell. Rawson, B. and Weaver, P. (eds) (1997), The Roman Family in Italy: Status, Sentiment, Space, Canberra: Humanities Research Centre, New York and Oxford: Clarendon Press. Rizakis, A. D. (1996), ‘Anthroponymie et société. Les noms romains dans les provinces hellénophones de l’empire’, in Rizakis, A. D., Roman onomastics in the Greek East. Social and political aspects. Proceedings of the international colloquium organized by the Finnish Institute and the Centre for Greek and Roman Antiquity, Athens 7–9 September 1993, Athens: Centre for Greek and Roman Antiquity, pp. 11–29. Saller, R. P. (1984), ‘Familia, Domus, and the Roman conception of the family’, Phoenix, 38, 336–355. —(1994), Patriarchy, Property, and Death in the Roman Family, Cambridge and New York: Cambridge University Press. Scheidel, W. (ed.) (2001), Debating Roman Demography, Leiden: Brill. Scott, J. W. (1999), Gender and the Politics of History, (revised edition), New York: Columbia University Press, pp. 15–52. Severy, B. (2003), Augustus and the Family at the Birth of the Roman Empire, New York: Routledge. Spivak, G. C. (1988), ‘Can the Subaltern speak?’, in Grossberg, L. and Nelson, C. (eds), Marxism and the Interpretation of Culture, Urbana: University of Illinois Press. 271–313. Stefanidou-Tiveriou, T. (2010), ‘Social status and family origin in the sarcophagi of Thessaloniki’, in Nasrallah, L.; Bakirtzis, C. and Friesen, S. (eds), From Roman to Early Christian Thessaloniki. Studies in Religion and Archaeology, Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press: 151–188. Tobin, J. (1997), Herodes Attikos and the City of Athens: Patronage and Conflict under the Antonines, Amsterdam: Gieben. Uzzi, J. D. (2005), Children in the Visual Arts of Imperial Rome, Cambridge and New York: Cambridge University Press. Vout, C. (2007), Power and Eroticism in Imperial Rome, Cambridge and New York: Cambridge University Press.

264

Families in the R oman and L ate A ntiq u e R oman Wo rld

Webster, J. (1997), ‘Necessary comparisons: a postcolonial approach to religious syncretism in the Roman provinces’, World Archaeology, 28, (3), 324–338. White, H. V. (1987), The Content of the Form. Narrative Discourse and Historical Representation, Baltimore, MD: Johns Hopkins University Press. Yasin, A. M. (2005), ‘Funerary monuments and collective identity. From Roman family to Christian community’, Art Bulletin, 87, 433–457.

Notes on contributors Sabine Armani is a Lecturer (Maître de Conférence) at the University of Paris 13 (PRES Sorbonne Paris Cité). Her research interests are in Roman social history, particularly familial relations, kinship vocabulary, epigraphy and the Iberian penninsula. Among her recent publications are: ‘Modesta Modesti f(ilia), pérégrine et Pacensis ? Onomastique et statut dans les colonies romaines de Lusitanie’, Actes de la VI° Table Ronde de la Lusitanie romaine, Mythes et réalités de la Lusitanie romaine, (2009: 421–450.);, ‘Les pérégrins des cités romaines de Lusitanie : identités et pratiques onomastiques’, Actes de la VII° Table Ronde de la Lusitanie romaine Naissance de la Lusitanie romaine (Ier av. J.-C. – Ier s. ap. J.-C.) (2010: 293–318). Chris Callow is Lecturer in Medieval History in the School of History and Cultures at the University of Birmingham. His research interests are in early medieval western European social history. Maureen Carroll received BA, MA and PhD degrees in Classics and Classical Archaeology in Canada, the U.S.A. and Germany. She is currently Reader in Roman Archaeology at the University of Sheffield. Her primary interests are in Roman death and burial, and especially funerary commemoration in Italy and western Europe, and in the archaeology of ancient Greek and Roman gardens. Among her recent publications are: M. Carroll, ‘Memoria and Damnatio Memoriae. Preserving and erasing identities in Roman funerary commemoration’, in M. Carroll and J. Rempel (eds.), Living Through the Dead. Burial and Commemoration in the Classical World. Oxford: Oxbow, 2011, 65–90; and M. Carroll, Spirits of the Dead. Roman Funerary Commemoration in Western Europe. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2006 (hardback), 2011 (paperback). Claude-Emmanuelle Centlivres Challet is a post-doctoral fellow in the Institut d’Archéologie et des Sciences de l’Antiquité at the University of Lausanne. Her current research interests are male-female relationships, gender, and the persona theory in Latin literature of the first and second centuries, and her forthcoming book on the subject Like Man, Like Woman: Roman Women Beyond Gender Roles and Male-Female Relationships at the Turn of the First Century will be published by Peter Lang Oxford.

266

N o tes o n c o ntribu t o rs

Eve Davies is a PhD candidate in Byzantine Studies at the Institute of Archaeology and Antiquity at the University of Birmingham. Her PhD draws upon evidence presented in hagiographies, histories and tombstones in order to understand the Byzantines’ perceptions of age and aging. Rebcca Gowland is a lecturer in Human Bioarchaeology in the Department of Archaeology, Durham University. Her research interests include health and social identity, demography and age identity, malaria in the past, and the interrelationship between the physical body and the social world. Much of Rebecca’s research has been on skeletal remains dating from the Romano-British to Anglo-Saxon transition. Recent publications include: (with Rebecca Redfern) ‘Childhood health in the Roman World: perspectives from the centre and margin of the Empire’ Childhood in the Past: An International Journal 3 (2101) 15–42; (with Peter Garnsey) ‘Skeletal evidence for health, nutritional status and malaria in Rome and the empire’ Journal of Roman Archaeology Supplementary Series 78 (2010) 131–156. Mary Harlow is a Senior Lecturer in Roman History in the Institute of Archaeology and Antiquity, University of Birmingham. Her research interests include the study of the life course in the Roman world, the history of the family, dress and identity and gender relationships in antiquity. She has recently contributed to and edited (with Ray Laurence) The Berg Cultural History of Childhood and the Family volume 1: Antiquity (2010). Natalie Boymel Kampen is Professor Emerita of Women’s Studies and Art History, Barnard College, Columbia University. She writes on issues of gender and social status in ancient art and on the art of the Roman provinces. Her most recent monograph is Family Fictions in Roman Art (2009) Lena Larsson Lovén is Reader in Classical Archaeology and Ancient History at the University of Gothenburg. Her research interests cover Roman social history, especially gender and life course studies, iconology and textile history. A forthcoming volume is The Imagery of Textile Making (2012). Ray Laurence is Professor of Roman History and Archaeology at the University of Kent. He has published extensively on Roman social history, including on Pompeii and on the Roman life course. His publications include: Roman Passions. A History of Pleasure in Imperial Rome (2009). He is also co-author of The City in the Roman West (2011) and co-editor of The Cultural History of Childhood and the Family volume I: Antiquity (2010). Jason Mander is a Junior Research Fellow at Worcester College, Oxford. His research interests are the ancient family, funerary commemoration and Roman childhood, with a specific focus on the representation of children in various art



N o tes o n c o ntribu t o rs

267

genres. His monograph, Portraits of Children on Roman Funerary Monuments is in press (2012). April Pudsey is a lecturer in Roman History in the Department of History, Classics and Archaeology at Birkbeck, University of London. Her research interests are ancient social, economic and demographic history, in particular the family, and Graeco-Roman Egypt. April is the co-editor of Demography and Society in the Greek and Roman Worlds. New Insights and Approaches (2011) Rebecca Redfern is a research bioarchaeologist and curator at the Centre for Human Bioarchaeology, Museum of London. Her specialist interests include palaeopathology, trauma, the archaeologies of gender and ageing, congenital and developmental abnormalities, impairment and disability. Much of her research has focussed on the Iron Age to Romano British transition and recent publications include: (with Rebecca Gowland) ‘Childhood health in the Roman World: perspectives from the centre and margin of the Empire’ Childhood in the Past: An International Journal 3 (2101) 15–42; (with S. N. DeWitte), ‘Status and health in Roman Dorset: the effects of status on risk of mortality in postconquest populations’ American Journal of Physical Anthropology (in press). Emma Southon is a PhD student in the Institute of Archaeology and Antiquity at the University of Birmingham. Her research interests are gender and family in the Late Antique west, Roman social history and the emperor Caligula. Shaun Tougher is a Senior Lecturer in Ancient History in the Cardiff School of History, Archaeology & Religion at Cardiff University. His research interests are in late Roman and Byzantine social and political history, particularly Julian the Apostate, eunuchs, and Byzantium’s Macedonian dynasty. He is the author of The Reign of Leo VI (886–912) (1997), Julian the Apostate (2007), and The Eunuch in Byzantine History and Society (2008). Francesco Trifilò is a Research Associate at the University of Kent at Canterbury. He specialises in Roman Archaeology and History, particularly the Roman city, epigraphy, and the Roman life course. Francesco’s most recent publication is ‘Public Architecture and Urban Living in the Roman City. The Example of the Forum of Timgad’, BABESCH 86 (in press).

Index

abandonment 5, 201 see also exposure and infanticide abuse, physical/sexual 4, 124, 128 adolescence 230 see also youth adolescentia 230 adoption 13, 17n. 46, 256 adultery 223 adulthood 3, 15n. 10, 16n. 19, 24, 28–9, 33–4, 77, 117–18, 226, 234n. 72, 241, 245–6 affection 12–13, 65, 67–8, 72–3, 76, 79–80, 82n. 12, 208, 223, 238–42, 244–5, 249, 252n. 51, 258 Africa 85, 92, 94, 128, 223, 256 Africa Proconsularis 39n. 11, 86, 100 age 2, 4, 8, 12, 23–6, 29–38, 42–6, 48–50, 66–7, 82n. 13, 113–18, 120, 123–4, 127, 141, 146–7, 149, 150, 157–72, 174, 199, 202, 204, 206–12 age at death 15n. 19, 23–6, 31–5, 77, 113–17, 119–20, 200, 202–4, 213n. 5, 214n. 24 age at first marriage 28–9, 159, 174, 199 age rounding 31–8, 207–8 age systems 28, 35, 39n. 21, 229–30, 234n. 71 chronological 26–7, 29–35, 38, 111, 115, 203 dental 113–18 old age 2, 3, 5, 10, 27, 28, 34, 172, 211–12, 217n. 76, 224, 230 skeletal 115, 117 Alba 43 amita (paternal aunt) 85, 92, 108n. 14 Ammianus Marcellinus 182, 193n. 11, 194n. 46, 194n. 55, 195n. 64, 195n. 67, 195n. 73–7, 196n. 79 Ampudii (family of) 143, 149–51 ancestors 95, 183, 185, 257 ancestry 12, 114, 117–19, 185, 195n. 77, 226 Antestii (family of) 143, 147–51 anthologies 256–7 Apollinaris, son of Sidonius Apollonaris 221, 225–6, 228–9, 231, 233n. 44, 233n. 53, 234n. 67, 234n. 70 apprenticeship 174, 177n. 43 Ara Pacis 66 Augustus 82n. 22, 143, 150

family of 146, 256 legislation 16n. 25, 28, 70, 80 see also ius liberorum, lex Papia Poppaea aunt 10, 12–14, 17n. 37, 43, 38, 85–6, 91–2, 234n. 61 see also amita, matertera avunculus (maternal uncle) 189, 195n. 64, 195n. 67 bioarchaeological analysis 111–40 biography 223, 255 Boatwright, Mary 81n. 7, 82n. 15, 83n. 46 255, 260n. 7 bones 44, 46, 112–17 boys, boyhood 28, 48–9, 53, 66, 67, 68, 73, 77, 92, 115, 144–5, 152, 153n. 11, 153n. 14, 176n. 42, 209–10, 215n. 45, 226, 230 breastfeeding 118, 121, 127 brother 12, 85, 92, 94–5, 144–5, 150, 154n. 35, 161–4, 169–72, 176n. 26, 182–5, 187–9, 194nn. 31, 32, 195n. 61, 195n. 64, 217n. 84, 223–4, 227–8, 234n. 57, 234n. 62 brother-in-law 182, 227–8, 234n. 57 brother-sister marriage 158, 161, 172, 174 bulla 145, 153n. 14 burial 28, 43, 45, 81, 111, 113–14, 121, 123, 143, 190, 195n. 74, 200, 202, 205, 212, 214n. 18, 215n. 36 of infants 41–56, 113, 120 Byzantine 199–217, 256 Calpurnia, wife of Pliny the Younger 9–10, 12–13, 16n. 20, 17n. 37 Calpurnia Hispulla 13–14, 17n. 43 Calpurnius Fabatus 9–10 Carthage 113, 106 Celsus 123 census 23, 39n. 14, 158–9, 171–2, 174, 175n. 9, 175n. 20, 175n. 25, 256 childcare 4 childhood idea of 4, 5, 238, 241

I ndex

269

as a stage of life 2, 13, 24, 28, 113, 115, 118, 119, 125, 127–8, 221, 223, 230, 232n. 3, 238, 240–2, 245 study of 2–3, 65, 111, 128–9, 258 children 4, 10, 15n. 14, 66–8, 70–1, 73–4, 76–8, 80–1, 81n. 4, 81n. 7, 81n. 8, 82n. 22, 91–2, 95, 108n. 37, 111–12, 115, 119, 123–4, 127–9, 141, 145, 150, 152, 153n. 13, 14, 157–61, 163–5, 167–74, 176n. 27, 184–5, 187–90, 208, 210–12, 214n. 16, 215n. 42, 215n. 45, 216n. 54, 216n. 59, 223–4, 226, 228, 234n. 62, 238–49, 250n. 11, 251n. 52, 255–6, 258 fatherless (female) 16n. 25, 27, 29, 33–4, 38 newborn, young 41–51 Cicero 41, 94, 239, 241, 249n. 7 citizenship 83n. 47, 255 Clodii (family of) 143, 146–51 commemoration 23–4, 26–38, 41, 49–50, 64, 72, 141, 143, 150, 195n. 64, 200, 202–5, 207–13, 214n. 21 consobrinus/a 85, 95 Constantine the Great 181–92, 193n. 18, 193n. 19, 193n. 24, 193n. 25, 194n. 29, 194n. 39, 194n. 44, 194n. 58, 195n. 64, 195n. 77, 195n. 256 Constantius II (son of Constantine the Great) 181–92, 193n. 16, 194n. 27, 194n. 28, 194n. 31, 194n. 32, 194n. 33, 194n. 48, 194n. 52, 195n. 61, 195n. 68 contubernium 255 Corellius Rufus 11 cousins 85, 91, 183–4, 187, 193n. 21, 195n. 70 craniometrics 117 cremation 42, 114 Crispus (son of Constantine the Great) 181–2, 184–7, 194n. 30, 40 cursus honorum 29, 31, 229–30

de Beauvoir, Simone 7, 15n. 3 demography xiv, 1–2, 27, 119–20, 158–9, 224, 257, 260n. 16 dentition 115, 118–19 dextrarum iunctio 69–70, 72–3, 77–9, 82n. 19 diet 50, 118–19, 123–8, 257 diversity 118, 256–7, 258 divorce 4, 5, 13, 17n. 46, 157–69, 171–2, 174, 175n. 6, 7, 188 divorcée 157–60, 166, 172, 174 DNA 114, 121, 128 domestic 3, 4, 5, 8, 13, 45, 46, 151, 152, 226, 256 domus 15n. 10, 251n. 43, 255 dowry 173

Dacia 39n. 11, 70, 73, 75–6 Danube provinces 70, 72–3, 75, 77–80, 255–6 daughter 9, 11–13, 16n. 31, 16n. 33, 17n. 38, 46–7, 67–8, 72–3, 77, 81n. 4, 82n. 35, 85, 87, 89, 91, 94–5, 146, 150, 154n. 35, 154n. 46, 161–72, 175n. 26, 176n. 27, 183–5, 187, 189–90, 193n. 19, 199, 209–10, 212, 224, 226, 228, 234n. 62, 238–40, 242–3, 249n. 7, 250n. 15, 250n. 20 daughter-in-law 89, 175n. 26 death 1, 7–10, 12, 15n. 9, 16n. 19, 23–6, 29, 31–2, 38, 41–2, 45–50, 64, 68, 72, 113–15, 117, 119–20, 123–4, 144, 154n. 20, 157–9, 161, 173–4, 176n. 27, 181–7, 189–90, 194n. 32, 195n. 61, 199–205, 207–10, 214n. 24, 215n. 45, 217n. 76, 217n. 83, 224, 226–9, 234n. 65, 235n. 76, 240–1, 247–8

familia xiii, xiv, 1, 14, 255 familial 23, 28, 67, 76, 81, 91, 143, 157, 159, 199, 209–10, 212–13 family core 143 extended 2, 13, 91, 143, 145, 157, 159, 176n. 27, 191, 254 imagery, iconography of 65–80, 81n. 7, 82n. 18, 82n. 30, 141–53, 153n. 1, 153n. 14, 155n. 51 name 9, 70, 92, 95, 241, 243 nuclear 2, 32, 65, 82n. 15, 147, 150, 176n. 27, 247, 254 father 10–13, 15n. 14, 16n. 33, 17n. 37, 46, 48, 53, 72, 83n. 47, 90–2, 145, 162, 170, 173, 176n. 27, 177n. 42, 183, 185, 195n. 64, 223–5, 226, 228,

education 12–13, 17n. 43, 147, 221, 223, 226, 240–1, 245–6, 250n. 23 elite 2, 7, 15n. 3, 17n. 43, 23, 31, 47, 48, 64, 95, 152, 193n. 21, 203, 213, 214n. 27, 216n. 68, 222–5, 229–31, 233n. 31, 234n. 72, 238, 256, 257, 259 emotion(s) 2, 47, 238 epigraphy 23–5, 30, 32, 35, 39n. 14, 42, 48, 65, 70, 72, 79, 85–108, 117, 121, 141, 144–6, 150–2, 153n. 1, 154n. 43, 199–213, 256–8, 260n. 17 epitaphs 15n. 19, 23–39, 48–9, 53, 86–108, 199–214, 247 epithets 48, 79, 87–91, 200, 211 eunuchs 183, 193n. 16 Eurysaces 142–3, 153n. 4, 153n. 5 Eusebius of Caesarea 184, 187, 193n. 24, 193n. 25, 194n. 44 Eusebius, relative of the Emperor Julian 188–9, 190–1, 194n. 56, 195n. 68 exposure 44 see also abandonment and infanticide

270 I ndex 231, 239–49, 249n. 7, 250n. 15, 250n. 19, 250n. 20, 251n. 32, 251n. 34 see also pater and paterfamilias fatherhood 211, 224, 238–53 fatherless 5, 15n. 14, 17n. 39, 173, 257 Fausta, wife of Constantine the Great 181–5, 193n. 19 fertility 9, 10, 157, 173, 175n. 5 filius/filia 16n. 27, 16n. 29, 16n. 33, 16n. 35, 81n. 4, 87, 89–91, 145, 249n. 2 fratris/sororis 85–6, 91–2, 94–101, 108n. 37 freedmen 49, 64, 70–2, 81, 92, 94–5, 108n. 37, 145, 147–52, 153n. 1, 153n. 2, 154n. 36, 255 see also libertini freedwomen 49, 145–6, 149, 151–2, 163, 166 see also libertini Fundanus, friend of Pliny the Younger 9, 11–12, 16n. 32 funerals 114 funerary monuments 48, 50, 52–3, 65, 67, 72–3, 76, 81n. 7, 141–52, 154n. 36 funerary strategy 113, 120 Gallia 39n. 11, 97, 103 Gaul 2, 41–2, 44–5, 70, 73, 81n. 7, 86, 221–6, 229, 231, 232n. 5, 233n. 43, 234n. 62, 234n. 72, 238, 256 see also Roman Gaul Gavii, family of 143–4, 148, 150–2 gender 2–4, 7, 8–9, 11–14, 14n. 2, 16n. 33, 23, 26, 29–30, 32, 34–8, 66–8, 73, 76, 82n. 13, 144, 151, 152, 153n. 1, 199, 203–4, 209, 221–2, 230, 258 generations 5, 7, 8, 9, 11–13, 117, 141, 152, 221, 238 Germania 86, 103 Golden, Mark 1, 4, 5, 5n. 10, 6n. 19 grandchildren 9–11, 86, 89, 161, 163, 168, 211–12, 234n. 62 granddaughter 10, 13, 86, 89, 91, 163–4, 166, 187 grandfather 9, 10–12, 13, 16n. 20, 86–90, 185–6, 225–6, 228, 251n. 26 grandmother 12–13, 77, 86, 88–92, 173, 176n. 36, 177n. 42, 188, 189, 234n. 62, 254 grandparents 5, 48, 86, 212 grandson 13, 86–90, 161–2, 164, 170, 223, 254–5 grave goods 41, 43, 48 Gregory of Tours 229, 234n. 65, 247–8, 251n. 38 grief 42, 46–7, 50–1, 245, 247–8 guardians 4, 29, 70, 165, 172–4, 176n. 28, 176n. 38, 248 see also tutela Gubbio 43–4 hagiography 206, 211, 246, 248–9

half-brother/sister 164, 166, 182, 184, 188–9, 195n. 64, 195n. 77 healing 49, 124–5 health 42, 49, 51, 111–12, 114, 117–21, 123–5, 128, 223, 245 Hispania 86, 91–6, 103, 105 Hispania Tarraconensis 39n. 11 household 2–4, 14n. 2, 23, 47, 67, 146, 157–72, 175n. 25, 175n. 26, 175n. 27, 223, 224, 225, 234n. 62, 245, 250n. 16, 254–5 husband 8, 32, 49, 64, 68–70, 72–5, 77–8, 82n. 35, 82n. 39, 90, 147, 150, 157–8, 161–4, 168, 171, 172, 173, 174, 176n. 27, 183, 185, 188, 195n. 61, 205–6, 209–10, 211, 216n. 59, 217n. 73, 223, 224, 247, 248 iconography 1, 3, 5n. 7, 64, 67, 68, 70, 72–3, 77–8, 80, 82n. 15, 141, 143, 146, 151–2, 153n. 1 indifference 41, 48–9 infant 41–54, 111, 113–15, 119–20, 208–9, 212, 230, 239, 241–2, 248–9 infant diet 125–7 see also weaning infant health 121–5 infant mortality 44, 50–1, 113, 120 infantia 230 infanticide 44, 111, 115, 119–20 see also abandonment and exposure inheritance 2, 7, 174, 223–4, 240 inhumation 42–3 inscriptions 23–40, 48–50, 70, 79, 86, 91, 94, 96–107, 141, 144–7, 151, 153n. 3, 154n. 27, 199–213, 213n. 4, 214n. 27, 215n. 36, 255, 257 isotope analysis 118, 127–8 ius conubium 255 ius trium liberorum 10, 16n. 25, 70 Julian, Roman Emperor 181–92, 193n. 12–19, 193n. 21, 194n. 27, 194n. 31, 194n. 33, 194n. 52, 194n. 53, 194n. 56, 195n. 67, 195n. 68, 195n. 70, 195n. 74 Kampen, Natalie 1, 3–4, 5n. 9, 14n. 1, 65, 70, 73, 76, 81n. 7, 81n. 9, 82n. 14, 82n. 18, 82n. 21, 82n. 31, 82n. 33, 82n. 38, 82n. 43, 151, 155n. 49, 256, 260n. 9 kin 11, 15n. 3, 157, 161, 165, 167, 172, 254–5 maternal 11–12, 15n. 9, 17n. 37, 86, 91–2, 120–1, 128, 186, 188–91, 195n. 64, 195n. 70, 208, 211–12 paternal 11–12, 15n. 140, 16n. 25, 17n. 39, 85–6, 88, 92, 182, 189, 191, 238–40, 243, 246, 250n. 8, 13

I ndex lex Papia Poppaea 70 libertini 70, 72, 80, 81n. 2, 82n. 26 libertus/a 97, 104, 106, 146, 147, 148 life course 3, 23, 25, 27–33, 35, 39n. 15, 39n. 18, 39n. 26, 111–12, 123, 128, 158, 199, 206–7, 209–11, 215n. 49, 216n. 54, 221–2, 224–5, 227–8, 229–32, 232n. 2, 233n. 29, 234n. 72 life cycle 225, 257, 260n. 16 manhood 182, 233n. 38, 245 manumission 49, 70, 72, 81, 141, 145, 147, 151–2, 255 marriage 2, 5, 7, 13, 15n. 9, 17n. 46, 28–9, 69, 70–2, 77, 79–81, 82n. 27, 83n. 47, 150, 152, 157, 158–9, 166–8, 171, 173–4, 175n. 4, 175n. 10, 182–7, 191, 193n. 21, 199, 209–12, 216n. 56, 216n. 63, 221, 223–4, 226, 228–9, 234n. 72, 247, 255 brother-sister marriage 158, 172, 174 marriage contracts 173, 176n. 34, 38, 247 marriage legislation 16n. 25, 28, 80 see also lex Papia Poppaea remarriage 4, 15n. 9, 157–9, 168, 170–2, 174, 175n. 7, 18 mater 15n. 10, 11, 251n. 27 Mater Matuta 49, 53 matertera (maternal aunt) 85–6, 91–2, 100, 106, 108n. 14 matron 10, 17n. 43, 49 Mauretania 39n. 11 Caesariensis 85–6, 97, 102 Tingitana 92, 95, 105 medicus 146–7 memory 2–3, 48, 65, 91, 141, 183, 202 micro-histories 257, 259 migration 39n. 12, 118–19, 123, Minicia Marcella 9–13, 16n. 190 Minicius Acilianus 12–13 miscarriage 10, 121 mobility 117–19, 127–9 morphology 117–18 mors immatura 9, 16n. 19 mother 8–9, 12–13, 15n. 2, 16n. 32, 17n. 36, 17n. 37, 17n. 42, 17n. 43, 47–9, 50, 53, 68, 72, 74, 82n. 35, 82n. 39 motherhood 210, 212 necropolis/necropoleis 41, 43, 47, 50 neonatal 44–5, 114, 120 neonate(s) 43, 45, 207 nephew 85, 86, 91, 92, 95, 102, 107n. 4, 108n. 20, 163, 168, 182, 183, 189, 190, 216n. 68 nepos 85–103, 108n. 20

271

newborn 41–3, 49–50, 120, 125 niece 12, 85, 86, 91, 92, 95, 108n. 20, 183, 189 nuclear family 2, 32, 65 nuclear group 147, 150, 247, 254 nurse see wet nurses occupations 149, 151–2, 154n. 35, 204, 205, 212, 215n. 37 see also work oikos xiii, xiv, 1, 14 old age see also age elderly 5, 27, 211, 212, 224 onomastics 94, 95, 96, 99, 104, 105, 260n. 7 osteology 254, 257 otium 15n. 10, 226–7, 231 Oxyrhynchus 173 parent(s)/parenting 4, 10, 38, 41, 45, 47–9, 68–9, 72, 77–8, 83, 86, 92, 119, 123, 145, 147, 150, 152, 153n. 11, 158, 161, 168, 172, 208–10, 216n. 56, 223–4, 234, 238, 240–2, 244–6, 248–9, 250n. 18 pater 16n. 27, 88, 90, 250n. 11, 251n. 27, 251n. 32, 45, 48 paterfamilias 29, 238, 240–1, 250n. 16 patria potestas 238 patruus (paternal uncle) 16n. 27, 85–6, 92, 108n. 14, 200 Paulinus of Pella 221–3, 233n. 43, 240, 245 pietas 13, 223–4 Plautus 94 Pliny the Elder 8, 42, 55n. 7 Pliny the Younger 7, 8, 14, 255, 260n. 5 plus minus 23–37 Plutarch 46, 47, 55n. 41–3 potestas 101, 238 property 173–4, 177n. 42, 223–5, 255 puerita 230 Rawson, Beryl 1, 3, 65, 254, 256–7 religion/religious 49, 186, 204, 225, 231, 234n. 62, 242, 244, 246, 249, 257, 259n. 1 remarriage 4, 157–9, 168, 172, 174, 175n. 7, 180 Roman Britain ivx, 114, 120, 123, 127, 254, 256 Roman Gaul 2, 42, 44, 234n. 17 Rome 3–4, 5n. 8, 25–6, 39n. 11–13, 42–9, 68, 70–3, 79, 81n. 1, 81n. 7, 82n. 28, 85–6, 92, 94–7, 102–3, 120, 125, 128, 141–4, 146, 150, 153n. 1, 153n. 8, 153n. 17, 154n. 30, 154n. 37, 188, 194n. 50, 195n. 61, 221–2, 225, 227–8, 231, 223n. 55, 234n. 65, 250n. 23, 255, 257 Saller, Richard 2, 5n. 1, 38, 202, 238–9, 249n. 8, 254

272 I ndex sarcophagus 214n. 20 Shaw, Brent 2, 5n. 1, 202 sibling(s) 77, 158–9, 161, 165, 168, 184–5, 189–90 Sidonius Apollinaris 221, 225, 240, 250n. 20–5, 251n. 31, 251n. 33 sister 10, 12, 68, 86, 91–2, 158, 161, 163–4, 170, 172, 174, 182–3, 185, 187–9, 193n. 19, 195n. 61, 195n. 77, 229, 234n. 70 slaves 24, 38n. 4, 49, 71, 81n. 4, 95, 145, 147, 151–2, 153n. 2–3, 161–8, 183, 204, 223–4, 255 sobrinus/–a/–i 85, 91–5, 103, 105–6, 108n. 37 soldiers 16n. 25, 72, 79–81, 82n. 30, 94, 159, 185, 217n. 84, 255 sons 17n. 43, 67–8, 74, 77, 81n. 4, 85, 145, 161–5, 167–74, 176n. 27, 176n. 30, 181–5, 187, 191, 193, 194n. 30, 211, 217n. 75, 223–35, 229, 234n. 62, 238, 240–2, 244, 246 spurius filius 145 status 127, 255 economic 141 freeborn 145 freed 148 illegimate 145 imperial 153n. 5, 191 legal 49, 152 manumitted 141 marital 199, 202, 204–6, 209–11 maternal 209, 211 noble 47 personal 226–7, 231 professional 204–6 servile 47 social 67, 141, 146–7, 211 socio-economic 118–19, 127, 157, 174 unmarried 204–6 virginal 210 wife 216n. 54 sub-adult(s) 112–15, 118–19, 123–4, 127 Suetonius 16n. 25

Thane, Pat 4 toga (toga praetexta, toda virilis) 28–9, 64, 69, 78, 145–7, 149, 201–5, 207–12 tomb 24, 56n. 65, 143, 153n. 7, 185, 201, 210, 214n. 7, 214n. 17, 20, 217n. 83, 248 tombstone 23, 68, 72, 74, 81n. 5 trauma 47, 124–5 Trimalchio tomb of 64–5, 81n. 5, 142 tutela 28, 31, 70, 173 see also guardianship

Tacitus 13, 55n. 46 Terence 94

Zosimus 198, 193n. 2, 193n. 7, 193n. 8, 193n. 9, 193n. 10, 194n. 50, 196n. 79, 196n. 82

Ummidia Quadratilla 255 uncle 9, 11, 12, 15n. 9, 15n. 14, 38, 85–6, 92, 182–3, 184, 189–90, 195n. 64, 250n. 26 see also avunculus and patruus Vagnari 43, 128 Veneto xiv virgin(ity) 10, 15n. 19, 28, 205, 210–11, 215n. 40, 234n. 72 weaning 50, 119, 125–7, 128 wet-nurses 47, 121, 125, 127 widow(s)/widower(s) 5, 157–74, 175n. 2, 175n. 6, 175n. 7, 175n. 14, 175n. 19, 175n. 26, 176n. 27, 176n. 30, 190, 225, 256 wife 9–10, 12, 13, 16n. 20, 32, 46, 55n. 42, 64, 65, 67–8, 69, 70, 73, 74–6, 78, 82n. 39, 91, 145, 150, 153n. 17, 154n. 46, 157–9, 161–74, 176n. 26, 176n. 27, 181, 182, 183, 184–5, 187–90, 193n. 19, 194n. 39, 194n. 48, 196n. 82, 199, 205, 209, 212, 216n. 54, 216n. 58, 216n. 59, 216n. 60, 223–5, 227, 229, 234n. 62, 234n. 70, 238, 241, 245, 247–8, 254–5, 258 work 48, 141–52, 153n. 13, 153n. 17, 154n. 36, 155n. 50, 204, 205, 215n. 33, 223, 255 see also occupations youth 2, 7–10, 13, 15n. 10, 29, 211, 223–5, 230, 234n. 72, 240, 241, 245–6, 250n. 19